What He Likes
by solojones
Summary: 6 months post-Reichenbach, Sherlock approaches Irene with an unusual job offer: he wants to shoot up, and he needs someone to mind him. But can she remain detached whilst Sherlock spirals deeper and deeper into his addiction? A dark and frank character and relationship study. M for pervasive drug use, some language, and sexual content. Adlock. Followed by The Way the Heavens Go.
1. 1: Nothing Out of the Ordinary

**Note: **I've already finished writing, so you can expect very regular updates. This story is made up of a series of 5 short stories about 5 times that Sherlock encountered Irene during his year and a half of tracking down Moriarty's network. Some of these stories are mutli-chapter, and there are about 10 chapters in total (I haven't broken them all up yet). I'll label how many chapters are in a part in the fashion of (1/3), (1/1), etc. so you will know when each story ends.

This story is technically a prequel to my fic adaptation of 'The Sign of the Four', which is about Sherlock's return to London after all of this happens. It's not at all necessary to have read that in order to understand this fic. But welcome to any SotF readers who are now reading this!

I love reading comments, and I reply to all of them. I consider it a chance to discuss the characters and story more and it's one of my favorite things about writing. Aussi, si tu est francophone, je parle français et tu peut laisser les commentaires en français si tu aime.

**Disclaimer: **These incarnations of Sherlock and Irene belong to Moffat, Gatiss, and the BBC.

**Warnings:** This story is rated M for heavy drug use, very dark themes of addiction and enabling, some language, and sexual content. It's intended as a mature, realistic portrayal of cocaine use, which I do not in any way condone.

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**1: Nothing Out of the Ordinary**  
(1/1)

The first time Irene Adler saw Sherlock Holmes lying supine and vulnerable on her bed, it was completely different than she would have ever imagined. And not at all as she had hoped.

Nighttime in Tel Aviv was a place bleary with coloured lights, thrumming with bad techno, and drenched in alcohol. Irene's flat on the tenth floor of a high rise overlooking the Mediterranean was a blissfully serene escape from that. It was a decent place, with two bedrooms and an open living and kitchen area that made it feel larger. Not quite as upscale as her flat in London had been, but then a woman who'd been rescued from certain death wasn't generally one to complain.

Still, it suited the international businessmen and cash-laden tourist clientèle well enough. Getting back to her old work was risky, but it had only taken a few months of attempting to work at a shop before she'd nearly gone completely mad. She'd taken the utmost precautions in hiding her true identity and screening her clients so as to avoid running into anyone who might know her or of her. This had led to a rule of absolutely no government officials: no Knesset members, no Mossad. But wealthy young IDF men bankrolled by their fathers were strangely common. Irene wasn't nearly as busy or well off as she had been, but she was alive and making do.

She'd even allowed herself to relax after a while, to enjoy herself again once the constant fear of capture by an old enemy had subsided. Irene was sitting on her balcony one evening, literally letting her hair down, dressed in a comfortable robe, and sipping on a mojito when-

_BANG BANG BANG!_

Her door shook with the impacts that couldn't exactly be described as knocking. Irene practically leapt out of her deck chair, her adrenaline immediately beginning to pound in surprise. She felt a stab of dread. If it were the police, she might be able to charm her way out of it. If it were a higher agency or a slew of other people who might want her dead or captured, she would stand little chance.

Setting her drink down on her dresser, she reached into a drawer and pulled out a small handgun from a false compartment at the back. Irene cocked the hammer back as she slowly inched her way out of her bedroom and across the wooden floor towards the front door.

_BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG! _

Her pace must have been too slow for whomever was on the other side. "Open the door!" An impatient voice shouted from the other side. _British accent_, she noted, and her pulse jumped even higher as her mind ran through the list of people from her past it might be. None of them were good. Except-

"Irene, I know how you enjoy toying with people but for the love of God, just this once, _hurry up!_" the baritone voice on the other side of the door hissed in annoyance.

_Except him. _Everything in Irene relaxed. She took a moment to set the gun safely on the wet bar before unlocking the door.

Sherlock Holmes didn't wait for her to actually open it herself, instead pushing the door open and nearly knocking her over as soon as he'd heard the _click_ of the lock. The instant he was inside, he slammed the door behind him and secured the two deadbolts and the extra latch at the top. He leaned his head against the door, closing his eyes in apparent exhausted relief.

It had been six months since Irene had seen him. Six months since he'd shown up here, alive (contrary to what BBC Online said), and demanding information on the contacts she knew in Jim Moriarty's network. She'd provided them without hassle. She figured it was the least she could do since she owed him her life after his extraordinary rescue in Kabul. Sherlock hadn't even really thrown her previous alliance with Moriarty in her face. They'd seemed to have reached a sort of truce, though things between them hadn't exactly been relaxed. There was an unacknowledged undercurrent there that both of them seemed happy to suppress. Sherlock had remained terse, professional, and distant throughout the brief encounter, then had taken off. Irene had never expected to see him again. She wasn't sure anyone would, given the danger of what he was off to do.

But now here he stood. Or, more precisely, slumped, as he seemed unable to stand fully upright. Irene had just now got a good look at him, and was instantly taken aback. Every other time she'd seen Sherlock Holmes, he'd been fastidiously well put-together: designer suits, polished shoes, even his messy waves of hair seeming intentional and fashionable. He'd been that way even in Kabul, under the robes anyway. So she was shocked to see him now in a grey t-shirt, a pair of dark blue scrub pants, and black trainers. He leaned against the door with his bruised left arm, and in his other scraped hand was a large plastic bag with an emblem she recognized as that of the nearby Ichilov Hospital.

Sherlock took a deep breath as he turned to face Irene. "I don't think I was followed, but you can never be too careful when you're supposed to be dead," he said. Then he half-heartedly raised an eyebrow at her. "Well, you should know."

The new angle of his face gave her a view of a large contusion on the left side of his head, mostly over his bloodied ear, but reaching all the way out to the edge of his left eye, which was half swollen shut. A glance down proved her suspicion right that he wasn't putting much weight on his left leg. His whole manner and tone belied exhaustion and extreme pain.

Most people would have gasped in horror or worry. Irene remained cool. "Being chased down by emergency department staff?" she asked with a hint of chastisement, as if such a silly thing were beneath him.

Sherlock apparently didn't have the energy to have a sense of humour at the moment. He pursed his lips. "Of course not," he replied. "There are one or two other people I wouldn't like to be seen by. Bad enough getting stuck in the hospital. Stupid," he spat, clearly disgusted. "I'd have refused to go had I been conscious."

"Since you were unconscious, mightn't you have _needed _to go?" Irene ventured. "Well, come sit down before you're that way again," she chided, leading the way into the open living room and kitchen. She might not be the warmest person, but she wasn't actually deliberately cruel to people. Well, unless they paid her to be. And all right, sometimes when she was toying with some deliciously interesting subject. But as tempting as Sherlock was on that front, he hardly seemed in shape to be played with at the moment.

As Irene sat down on the couch, Sherlock limped his way over and lowered himself gingerly into one of the high-backed chairs opposite her. She noted him wincing and saw his side abdominal muscles contract. Cracked ribs, perhaps? Once they were both seated, she raised an eyebrow at him in question.

"Car accident," he answered. "Well, he was in a car. I was on foot."

"And was it actually an accident?" she asked.

"No," he replied.

"So, things are going that well?" she drawled with a note of humour.

Again, he seemed to see nothing worth making a mockery of. Instead, he gave her a steady, calculating stare. A classic Sherlock stare, which always slightly thrilled her. She wondered what he might surmise this time. He seemed to be mulling something over carefully.

Irene was shocked when instead of launching into an analysis, Sherlock said, "I need to stay here tonight. Possibly through tomorrow evening."

It was her turn to stare him down. She had once borrowed his bed without asking when she'd been in a somewhat similar situation. Still, she'd paid him back for that and all the rest with the information she'd given him about Moriarty's network. That was worth its weight in gold, and it could possibly be traced back to her, revealing her to be alive and getting her killed in the process. He knew that. If she let him in now, it would put him in debt to her, yes. And she did value people being indebted to her, though blackmail was no longer her stock and trade. Still, there was an unspoken tension between Sherlock and Irene that, while sometimes delectable, made Irene wary of exposure. It seemed dangerous to let her guard down with him, to treat him simply as an old friend. She wasn't sure what Sherlock was, but he wasn't that.

"I told you last time you were here," she reminded him, "that we were even. And you agreed. Besides which, I have a client in the morning. I can't afford to cancel business to keep you hidden."

Sherlock considered her for a moment, the mildest of surprise showing in his one open eye. "Fine," he said, and opened the hospital bag. He pulled out a green cargo jacket (with, she noted, a splatter of blood on the left side) and opened a disguised pocket on the inside. Sherlock pulled out a wad of shekel notes. He took three 500 shekel bills off the top, and set them on the coffee table between them. "There," he said, "that's nearly £250. Which I'll wager is more than what your client was going to pay you tomorrow." It wouldn't have been back in the London days, but here he was certainly right about that. Nearly double. Irene nodded cautiously and Sherlock said, "Well, then. Consider me your client."

Irene studied him guardedly, unsure exactly what he meant. Still, trying to maintain a professional persona, she took the money off the table and tucked it in the pocket of her robe. "What do you want?" she asked.

"Isn't that normally your job? To figure out what someone _likes?_" Sherlock challenged.

Irene's pulse quickened slightly. But he couldn't really mean... not that the notion of tying Sherlock Holmes down and making him beg for mercy twice wasn't appealing. In spite of the fact that she's been _supposedly_ exaggerating to manipulate him when she'd said that, it had certainly conjured up a vivid and exciting image in her own mind. But it was precisely because she actually desired it that the idea made her nervous. She was in the business of catering to clients' fantasies, not her own. It was a line no professional dominatrix should cross.

Her surprise and reservation must have been evident, because Sherlock scowled. "Oh, don't look so appalled. It isn't like that." Irene felt equal parts relieved and disappointed. Sherlock eyed her carefully. "I don't need you to _do_ anything at all, exactly. But I need someone to watch me."

"To watch you... Because of a concussion?" she asked hopefully.

"What? No, that was mild anyhow." Sherlock seemed frustrated and even disappointed at her inability to guess what he meant. He was right, it was her job, and normally she was quite good at it. But Sherlock was a puzzle all his own. The detective sat forward a little. "What happened tonight, the man I was after hitting me with his car, that's been happening more and more often."

"People hitting you with their cars?" she asked, somehow not finding that impossible.

"My targets realising I'm following them," Sherlock replied stonily, not amused. He ran a hand aggressively through his hair. "If they actually recognise me, find out I'm alive before I manage to get them imprisoned in some godforsaken place where they'll never be heard from or before I can," he faltered a little, "get rid of them another way... then all of it will be for nothing. John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade... none of them will be safe anymore."

Ah, now she could picture the evening's events more clearly. But that still left the question of why he was here. "So your solution is to hide here?"

"No," he replied. "That's a very temporary solution to the immediate problem. The larger problem is my inability to focus properly. I'm used to talking aloud, which you can't do if you're avoiding drawing attention to yourself. I've been operating in places I don't know as well. Cultures I'm not nearly as familiar with, often in languages that aren't my native tongue. And I've been slipping," Sherlock admitted. He started rubbing both temples with his fingers. "I need to be able to think faster, more clearly. To feel both at ease in general and alert on specific matters. I need something to help me..." he trailed off, seemingly unwilling to actually say it.

But, as if a switch had suddenly been thrown in her head, Irene realised she didn't need him to. She knew precisely what he meant, and it stopped her cold. Jim Moriarty had given her a lot of information on Sherlock when she'd been manipulating him. He'd particularly elaborated on Sherlock's 'girlfriend Charlie', as he'd called it. However, she'd never tried to use the drugs against Sherlock. It was one thing to toy with a man's emotions; it was another to toy with his life. Irene shuddered internally with distaste, but outwardly managed to somehow maintain her professional aura. "I take it you brought some with you?" she asked.

Sherlock glanced up at her, looking apprehensive for a second, as if expecting judgment. When he saw only her carefully placed mask, he relaxed a little and nodded. "I bought some between the hospital and here. It's easy, really, when you know what sorts of people to look for..." He sounded a little chagrined. Looking away, he leaned down and picked up the hospital bag again. This time, he pulled out a box of surgical gloves. Irene was confused for a moment until he reached inside, past the gloves on top, and pulled out a few capped syringes, alcohol wipes, and some cotton wool, setting them on the table. Then he reached back in and pulled out a series of medical vials, followed finally by a nondescript little wad of tin foil.

Steepling his hands against his face, Sherlock said, "I brought a few of these things purely for precautionary reasons."

"How long has it been since you used?" Irene asked, working hard to suppress the bile rising in her throat as she did.

"Bit over two years," Sherlock replied, and Irene remembered that he'd just got out of rehab not long before he'd met John. It was a long stretch of sobriety as far as IV drug users went, and that seemed to make him waver for just a moment. Then he became insistent again. "Part of why I need you to watch me, to be my minder. I'm sure nothing will go wrong, but it has been a while and it's safest to do it this way. I need to test it, to reacclimate before I use it in the field."

She wanted to scoff at the notion of the 'safest' way to inject cocaine into your body, but again bit her tongue. She really needed to get her discomfort under control. That was unusual for her. He was just a client, she reminded herself. And not that she'd ever actually watched a client shoot up, but certainly a number of them came to her in various states of intoxication. She wasn't one to judge in general. So why should this case be any different? What business of her was it what Sherlock did to himself?

Steeling herself, Irene nodded at the vials. "All right, what are those for?"

If she sounded impressively clinical about it, he sounded disturbingly so as he tapped each vial in turn and described them. "Sodium bicarbonate if my heart rhythm becomes too elevated or irregular. That's due to acidosis, and this will lower my blood pH and should restore normal sinus rhythm. This one's Ativan, in case of a seizure."

"And do those things happen often?" Irene asked, sounding merely curious in the face of being told she might have to inject him with these things.

"No, very rarely. Only a seizure once. But it's best to be prepared. I'm sure nothing out of the ordinary will happen," Sherlock mused.

His definition of 'the ordinary' gave Irene another unwanted pang and sent a chill down her spine. But she nodded and said, "Right, then. So I take it that," she indicated the little wad of foil, "is the cocaine?"

Sherlock halted, his breath wavering unevenly for a second. Irene realised it was the first time anyone had actually said the word, and it seemed to have shattered Sherlock's attempt at maintaining a scientific, impartial perspective on the matter. Clearly he'd come to the decision to relapse in a very disinterested manner, his usual objective decision making process working out the pros and cons. But deep down she knew it couldn't really be that simple for him to give up his hard won sobriety. She saw his eyes flick to the drug, a flash of uncertainty crossing his features. Then his lips thinned into a determined line. He looked back at her. "Yes," he said. "I'll need a spoon. And some water, as clean as you have."

"I'll get them." In truth, Irene was glad for the chance to get up and turn her back on him as she walked to the kitchen. Professionalism or no, this whole situation was making the air heavy and, ironically, quite sober. As she took a bottle of spring water from the fridge and a spoon from the drawer, she worked hard at not thinking about what they were for. She walked back and handed them to Sherlock, who set them down on the table without a word. Irene sat back down and watched him quietly.

She saw that Sherlock had already unwrapped the foil to reveal a small amount of clumped white powder. He took on the concentrated look of a scientist in a lab, looking only at his implements, as he grabbed the spoon and began using it to crush the clumps up, dicing at them until it was all fine grained. Then he set that down and removed the cap from one of the syringes, setting both aside carefully. He unscrewed the cap from the water and raised the spoon once more, pouring a small quantity of water into it. The hand holding the spoon remained level as he reached down and pinched up what looked like a precisely calculated quantity of cocaine. Not like a scientist measuring it out carefully; more like a chef working at a familiar recipe of his own invention. This he sprinkled into the spoon, then took the needle and began swirling it around in the solution, watching as the powder dissolved. Sherlock pinched a tiny amount of cotton off the roll of cotton wool and dropped it in the solution. Then he carefully set the spoon down on the table. Finally, he put the end of the needle on the now soaked cotton and pulled back the plunger, drawing the cocaine solution into the syringe.

Sherlock paused, staring at the needle in his hand for a moment, the results of his careful work. And again, Irene could see the lapse in his resolve. But it only lasted a second before he quickly replaced the cap on the now full syringe and set it aside. Looking up at her finally, he said, "I need a place to lie down."

"You can use my bed," Irene replied without thinking. The couch was too small, and there was another bedroom that she always used for business, but hers was more comfortable. Sherlock didn't need to know that she never, ever let clients in there. "It's this way," she said, standing up.

Before she could lead the way, Sherlock handed her the medication vials and extra syringes. "Just in case," he reminded her, his hands lingering on hers just a moment. Then he grabbed his own needle, some alcohol swabs, and finally reached into his bag and pulled out a belt.

Irene stared at him. He met her eye, only able to look at her a second before ducking his head. She was used to spotting a man's shame and exploiting it. In this case, she didn't want to. She turned and quietly led the way into her warmly coloured, low lit bedroom. She sat in the chair in the corner, the one she lounged around and read in when the weather was bad, which wasn't often here. Irene was suddenly very aware of her own breathing as Sherlock entered the deathly silent room.

Sherlock's eyes continued to avoid her as he sat down on the bed. He kicked his trainers off and let them fall to the floor before scooting up the bed. Again, he winced and leaned towards his left side to alleviate the pain in his ribs, and Irene realised he might be seeking an anaesthetic benefit to the cocaine in additional to its use for brain work. After six months of being dead to everyone back in London, combined with the stomach-churning work he'd been doing in the interim, there were all sorts of other, more personal reasons he might have turned back to the needle. _Which is absolutely none of your concern,_ Irene reminded herself sharply.

Shifting until he seemed more comfortable, Sherlock looped the belt around his bruised left arm and pulled it tight. Irene watched, unable to look away from the practiced movements. All of this felt unreal. She felt as if she'd entered some bizarre alternate universe, or a fugue state. As if _she_ were the one who was high. Sherlock flexed his hand a few times, then ripped an alcohol swab open with his teeth and cleaned his inner elbow. He made a fist with his left hand, and with a practiced right hand uncapped, raised, and flicked the side of the needle to draw a small spurt of liquid. Sherlock stayed that way, staring at the needle, for a long, heavy moment. She could see a thousand troubled thoughts running through his brain. His hands didn't tremble, but his jaw did.

Irene's heart was in her throat, hammering painfully. It shouldn't matter what Sherlock did. He was a grown man. But she was suddenly angry at him for making her do this, making her watch all of this. But then, the logical side of her reasoned, wasn't it safer for him to do this here than somewhere on his own? Just this once, to be supervised? And why shouldn't she be as neutral a party as a random stranger? He was her client, not her friend, not her anything else. This is what he was paying her for.

_You know what he likes. _The realisation clanged in her head like a bell. Normally finding out someone's deepest desire was the greatest pleasure in her work. This time, it made her stomach churn.

In one smooth movement, Sherlock unclenched his fist, loosened the belt on his arm, and deftly sunk the needle into a vein. Irene felt her own breathing stop as he pushed the plunger in a little, then withdrew some blood. Then he depressed the plunger slowly, so slowly Irene felt as if time had stopped. When he pulled the needle out, he had the momentary presence of mind to replace the cap and vaguely rolled it aside on the bed. Then he inhaled a sharp, shuddering breath and fell back onto her pillow. All of his muscles seemed to tense up, a sweat broke out on his forehead, and his breathing was rapid and uneven. For a few panicked moments, Irene wondered if he might be seizing.

Then his muscles relaxed as he breathed out a long, ragged, nearly orgasmic, "Oh _fuck._"

Irene didn't think she'd heard him swear like that before. But then, she'd never seen him mainline cocaine before. Irene had thought, yes, she'd admit, even fantasised, about seeing Sherlock Holmes undone, hearing a moan of ecstasy like that from him. Now here he lay, shuddering, vulnerable, muttering incoherently as the sweat began to drip down his face. Irene had longed to get him in such a position. But not like this. "Sherlock," she started hesitantly, "are you all right?"

"All right?" he asked, his voice sounding distant. He paused for a good thirty seconds, lost somewhere in his mind, before he finished. "I'm fantastic." He sat up quickly, and swung his legs over the side of the bed, not even flinching at the torquing movement to his cracked ribs. "This is precisely what I need." He got up, turning to face her as she stood as well. His pupils were already blown wide open, his gaze a bit unfocused. Then it looked like something dawned on him, and he pushed past her, limping quickly back into the living room. Feeling utterly helpless, Irene followed him.

Sherlock was crouched down, digging through his bag. He pulled out a few papers, a map, and a pen and sat down on the couch. Immediately, he began scribbling, scratching through words, sketching up God knew what. "I'd forgotten," he said ruefully, "just how amazingly focused and energetic... the clarity, it's like sun through a magnifying glass." His hands were shaking, but she was sure he didn't notice. Couldn't notice. Something inside her grew knotted and cold.

Irene just stood there for a good ten minutes as Sherlock mumbled to himself and worked out whatever it was that was barrelling through his mind. It was apparent to her that he wasn't about to have a heart attack or seizure or anything else she was meant to watch out for. But what else was she going to do, go to bed? She sank down into a chair and listened to Sherlock rambling at light-speed, his brain seemingly burning up in his skull, for a good half an hour.

When the crash hit him, she could barely get him to walk back into the room and lie down in bed. His skin was cold and slick with sweat. He flopped back onto the bed and groaned. "Cold," he muttered, his voice dry and parched, maybe from the drugs, maybe from having spoken non-stop for thirty minutes. It would be impossible to get him under the covers, she realized. Instead she grabbed an extra blanket from the closet and tossed it over him. He didn't bother to adjust it, or move at all. "Too bright," he moaned angrily. The lights were all off but the curtains were open, letting the moonlight spill in. Sherlock covered his face with his hands, rubbing his eye sockets deeply. She feared he was going to make his swollen left eye even worse. But she didn't dare say anything.

Sherlock finally rolled over slowly, away from the window, not even caring that he'd wound up on his bad left side. His breathing was shallow, but she knew he wasn't asleep. Irene doubted whether he'd be able to sleep at all. She walked over to the window and drew the curtains anyway. Then she took a seat in her chair, quite literally watching his back as he lay there, a shuddering shadow of the man she knew.

The next morning, when Irene awoke, her neck cramped from having fallen asleep in her reading chair, Sherlock Holmes and all of his implements were gone.


	2. 2: Up His Sleeve, chapter 1

**Part 2 Summary: **Sherlock hires Irene to watch his back as he field tests potent purified cocaine as a social lubricant. But when an uninhibited Sherlock heads to a beachside bar, they encounters some unforeseen dangers of his new state of mind.

**Note: **Thank you all for the encouraging reviews on the first part! This story has 2 chapters. It's a bit of a slow burn, but I couldn't stop Sherlock from being scientific and methodical in this first chapter.

**Disclaimer**: I don't condone drug use. The detailed descriptions of cocaine cleaning and use in this story are meant for dramatic not instructive purposes. Research for this story has probably got me flagged by the FBI or something already :p

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**2: Up His Sleeve  
**(1/2)

Once again, Irene had been left feeling as though she'd never see Sherlock Holmes again. And after three months, she was really beginning to believe it. Then one evening there was a knock on her door, quieter, almost polite this time. That had made it almost more surprising to see Sherlock standing on the other side when she's opened it. He looked energized, a little jittery perhaps, but at least he didn't seem to have been hit by any cars lately.

But he was carrying a bag again, this time a discrete khaki bag with one strap slung over his shoulder. It fit in well here. As did his suntan, linen shirt and trousers. _Evidently prepared for the desert, then._ Sherlock closed the door behind him, then wasted no time getting to the point. "I wondered if I might use your flat again? Same arrangement as last time: 1500 shekels to stay here a night. Much pricier than a hotel, but infinitely more discrete for my business."

"Hello to you, too," Irene replied glibly.

Sherlock didn't seem bothered by her insinuation that he was being rude. He was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, clearly eager to get to work on something. It occurred to her, with a feeling of discomfort she couldn't quite place, that he might be high. But no, his pupils weren't dilated nor was he sweating. He was just being Sherlock, then. "Well?" he asked impatiently, pulling the money from his wallet. "Have we got a deal?"

She thought about saying no. About telling him he couldn't just drop in and inconvenience her whenever it suited him. She knew she _should_ feel that way, but in actuality, she didn't mind seeing him. Not caring to dwell on why, Irene took the money. Sherlock looked pleased and immediately moved into the kitchen, setting his bag on the counter. "Business in Israel again?" she asked, leaning against the opposite counter and watching as he unpacked what looked like lab equipment: funnels, beakers, filters.

Not looking back at her, Sherlock replied, "No. On my way to Morocco. I need to be better prepared than I have been."

"And this," she indicated the bottles of chemicals he was placing next to the beakers. "Part of the preparation?"

"The whole of it, really," he said, setting his last item - a packet of foil the size of a cigarette pack - on the counter. Sherlock opened one of the bottles and filled up a small beaker. Irene immediately recognised the scent of bleach. She moved off to the side so that she could watch with interest as he worked. When he unwrapped the foil to reveal a large quantity of snowy white powder, it gave her a moment of sobriety. She didn't know how much he'd been using or how often, but this certainly indicated he was planning on using a lot in the near future. Still, Irene tried to see this as the objective sort of lab work Sherlock was treating it as. After all, what did it matter to her what sorts of things he put in his arm?

Sherlock took a pinch of the cocaine and dropped it in the bleach. The white powder swirled to the bottom, but a mixture of red and orange oily residue floated near the top. Sherlock grunted in displeasure. "Not good?" she asked.

"It's contaminated with amphetamines and most likely lidocaine." He tutted in annoyance, and frowned, holding the beaker up to observe the residues. She had to say, he looked quite the obsessive chemistry anorak, which actually made her smile. Better to think of him that way than to consider the end goal of his experimentations. "No wonder I've been feeling on edge and jittery. It shouldn't make you feel that way, but these days it's becoming more common to cut it with cheaper drugs. Some of which really have little discernible effect but to cheat the buyer. Others, like amphetamines, considerably alter the desired effect of the drug. Cocaine is a stimulant, but one that should, in its pure form, create a feeling of intense euphoria, social ease, confidence, and laser sharp clarity of thought. Very unlike the anxious tweaking you get from amphetamine contamination." He stared at the beaker a few more seconds before setting it aside.

"So," Irene ventured, one arm folded across her chest, the other propped on it and stroking her throat in absent contemplation as she observed Sherlock, "Is there a way to filter those other things out?"

Sherlock turned his gaze towards her for the first time, smiling confidently. "Yes, I can manage it. Hence these." He waved at the various chemicals, then turned back to them. "But the whole process takes about a day. Getting everything dry takes time. And I'll need to field test it. So in actuality I shall probably be here a bit longer than twenty-four hours." Without asking if he should, he reached for his wallet and took out 500 more shekels, which he set down absently on the counter. All the while, he never took his eyes off the cocaine.

Silently pocketing the extra money that she really didn't think was necessary, Irene watched as Sherlock started what was apparently the next phase. He took a much larger beaker and poured in some chemical that filled the air with a vague stinging scent. Then he dumped the whole quantity (it must have been three or four ounces) into the liquid. He began stirring it with a glass rod. They went on like that in silence until Sherlock set the rod aside and covered the beaker with a thin piece of filter paper. "That needs five or ten minutes," he said. Turning to Irene, he asked, "Water?"

It took a moment for her to realise he must mean spring water as the tap was right beside him. "Sure," she said, grabbing a bottle from the fridge and handing it to him. Instead of using it for his experiment, he twisted off the cap and started guzzling it down. "Thirsty?" she asked with a raised eyebrow.

Sherlock swallowed his water loudly. "I've been occupied. A person can go without water for quite a while and still function normally," he reasoned nonchalantly, taking another gulp.

_No time to drink some water, but he managed to find time to gather all of this,_ Irene thought, taking in the many items required to purify his cocaine. It was a sobering thought, and she looked back to Sherlock, studying his appearance. With the long sleeves, it was impossible to look for direct evidence of how often he'd been using. But his skin was a normal colour and his eyes seemed focused. His manner was fidgety and anxious, though. Still, at least he wasn't covered head to toe in bruises. "You're looking better than the last time I saw you."

"I'd just been hit by a car. That's hardly a compliment," Sherlock scoffed.

"Still, nice to see you're holding up," Irene commented lightly. She _hoped_ that was the case, and secretly wanted him to confirm that. He may be her client, in a very odd sort of way, but they had an unusual history. Besides, she'd hate to see such a brilliant mind snuffed out.

Sherlock had paused with the bottle halfway to his lips and was giving her a slightly narrowed, appraising stare. He glanced away and downed the rest of the water, tossing the bottle in the bin. Without a word, he turned back to the counter and eyed the liquid and cocaine mixture, drumming his fingers absently on the counter. After about a minute, it became apparent he wasn't going to say anything else, that he'd fallen back into the intense working 'zone' he had.

Irene crossed the room and stretched out on the couch, facing the kitchen so she could still watch Sherlock work. In a few minutes, he took the mixture and filtered it through the funnel and beaker. Once all the liquid (along with a mushy residue) had drained, he poured it down the sink. Then he poured more of the clean, stinging liquid into the beaker, dropped the cocaine in, and began stirring it yet again.

"How long does this process take?" Irene asked.

"The acetone filtration should be done several times. Then there's the chloroform, which takes about the same amount of time. The drying can take approximately 24 hours, but," he bit his lip in thought, then looked at her. "Do you have a hair dryer I might borrow?"

The notion of acetone and chloroform serving as 'cleaning' agents for something Sherlock was planning on injecting into his bloodstream gave Irene a moment's pause, a small shudder going up her spine. But she remained composed. "Yes, just a minute," she replied, getting up and heading into her room and to the en suite bathroom. It was good to be out of Sherlock's sight for a few seconds. It enabled her a moment to let out a deep sigh she felt she'd been holding since Sherlock stepped through her door.

Irene leaned on the counter with one hand, and with the other rubbed the lines of tension out of her forehead. She was professional to the extreme and used to an astounding number of clients' fetishes and deviant desires. In the end, shouldn't this be no different? This was, after all, what Sherlock liked, wasn't it? The rush and abandonment of his cocaine.

Opening her eyes and studying her face a moment to make sure her expression was set, Irene grabbed the dryer and strode back into the kitchen in her confident, easy manner. When she handed it to Sherlock, he didn't so much as look at her. He'd gone very quiet, focused only on the task at hand, only on the pursuit of a better high. Irene's stomach twisted slightly. "Well, I was actually about to head to bed when you showed up, as it is," she checked the clock on the microwave, "nearly one in the morning." That was true. She did feel tired. Besides, he might be paying her in part to mind him as he 'field tested' tomorrow, as he said; but he hardly needed her watching him do his lab work. No, she could skive off that. "You can use the guest room if you like. Only if you move any of my work tools in the closet, I'll know about it," she warned. Still, Sherlock said nothing, not even acknowledging that she'd spoken. He was entirely consumed with his pursuit.

"Good night," Irene added softly, though she knew he probably didn't really hear. She headed back to her bedroom, grateful for the walls of separation between herself and the surreal world Sherlock had brought into her living area once again.

* * *

When Irene awoke the next morning and headed to the kitchen for some breakfast, there was no sign of Sherlock or his lab utensils anywhere. She managed to get through the whole business of eating and reading the news online before finally giving in to her desire to check that Sherlock was still there. Approaching the guest bedroom, she wrapped on the door quietly. There was no response, so Irene slid the door open silently.

Sherlock lay asleep in bed, the covers pulled most of the way up his bare chest, his shirt and trousers neatly folded on a chair, and the tin foil with its powdery white contents open under the lamp on the bedside table. At first it occurred to her that he might have already taken some more of the drug, but no, there weren't any syringes around. It was possible he might have inhaled some, but that didn't seem very like him. And he'd been the one to note the 24 hour drying as part of the scientific process. She doubted Sherlock Holmes would be one to throw off his own "experiment". No, he'd most likely got to bed very late, or was very tired. Probably some combination of the two.

Irene eased the door shut to let him sleep, then went to call her afternoon client and cancel his appointment.

The day passed surprisingly quietly for what she might have expected out of having Sherlock there. She'd been sitting around reading and enjoying the silence for several hours before deciding to head down to the shop to get some groceries. By the time she returned from the longer than expected journey, it was six in the evening and Sherlock was sitting in her living room, back in his khaki outfit, reading a book. She noticed that his hair was damp, and concluded he must have just got out of the shower. _How long did he sleep?_ she wondered in amazement. He must have indeed been awfully tired. It occurred to Irene that he might not have had many safe places to sleep lately.

"Anything interesting?" she asked.

"Travel guide for Marrakesh. Memorising as much of it as possible," Sherlock replied, not looking up.

"I was thinking of making a sort of Mediterranean pasta. Sun-dried tomatoes, feta, that sort of thing. That sound all right?" she asked, setting her bags down and beginning to put her groceries up.

"Fine," he replied, not looking up as he turned a page. He made no move to offer assistance, but she wouldn't have expected him to. He was paying her, after all.

He kept right on reading the decently thick book all the way through dinner, hardly acknowledging her presence and not even bothering to get a plate of food. She wondered if this were how he always got when thinking deeply about a case. _Poor John,_ she thought in bemusement as she looked over at Sherlock, in his own world as he read.

Irene headed for her bedroom to dive back into her novel. She picked it up and went to lie on her bed before thinking better of it. She was being paid to mind Sherlock, wasn't she? Well, it was as good an excuse as any to head back to the living room and take a seat across from him. She read her novel, sure, but kept sneaking in glances at him as well. If he noticed (which he almost certainly did), he didn't say anything. In fact the only thing he said for hours was to state that he needed some computer paper and a pen. She got it for him even though he hadn't exactly _asked_. Then he'd set about drawing what appeared to be fairly detailed street maps of Marrakesh by memory.

By midnight, she'd long since finished her book and had been switching between BBC World News and CNN International for the better part of two hours when Sherlock finally looked at her and said, "I think it should be ready by now." He got up, looking suddenly anxious with anticipation, as he headed into his room. Irene followed after him.

Sherlock picked up the tin foil carefully and shook it ever so slightly. A tiny puff of white particles lifted into the air, and the rest shifted around easily. He smirked. "Excellent. It's perfectly dry, then. Now let's see if it worked properly." Irene crossed her arms, feeling a little uneasy but trying to remain professionally detached. Sherlock sat down on the bed and took out his implements (he was carrying his own spoon and distilled water this time), preparing everything just as she'd seen him do the last time.

When he finally had his sleeve rolled up and belted off, she could see a handful of tiny red marks on his veins. Anything past about two weeks probably would be completely healed, so long as he hadn't been re-using sites, which he didn't appear to be (she tried to keep the word 'yet' from following in her mind, but failed). She had seen a number of addicts very up close in her time, and she had to admit she was a little relieved to surmise that Sherlock was using perhaps twice a week. On balance, that wasn't too bad, she justified. More of a habit than an addiction, if you thought about it. And for the express purpose of sharpening his senses while he was doing his dangerous work. Of course, if this improved formulation really did work better, make him less edgy... not to mention based on the large quantity he had cleaned versus the relatively small amount in his dose...

Irene shut that line of thought down, clamping her jaw together tightly for extra measure. "So," she said, stopping Sherlock just as he had the needle nearly to his skin. He glanced up in annoyance. "Same as last time? Do you have those medications with you, just in case?"

He scowled at what he must deem to be her stupidity. "That was only because I couldn't predict if my body would handle it well again. Now I know it does, so that's irrelevant. And no," he said, even as he shoved the needle casually into his arm and drew back a spot of blood. "Not like last time. As I said, I need to field test this batch, so you should come with me. Perhaps even note some observations." But before she could ask where precisely they were going, Sherlock had already started slowly pushing the solution into his bloodstream.

Instead of collapsing back onto the pillow and looking like he was practically seizing, this time Sherlock closed his eyes and inhaled deeply for a few moments. That had to at least be some sort of improvement, didn't it? Irene still felt her stomach churning nauseously, but perhaps it was only the rare feeling of encountering something yet unfamiliar to her, she reasoned. Sure, she also knew intellectually that drugs were very bad for you, but really, what business of that was hers? Besides, despite what Moriarty had told her about Sherlock's previous addiction, she had a very difficult time imagining him ever losing control. Well, no, she imagined it on occasion but under entirely different circumstances. More precisely, she liked to think that _she_ was the only thing that had ever caused Sherlock Holmes to lose his better judgment.

But if he went to all this trouble to purify the cocaine, there must be some explicit purpose, some trick up his sleeve... Irene winced at the unfortunate turn of phrase. After thirty seconds or so of Sherlock not saying anything, opening his eyes, or even removing the syringe from his arm, she prompted, "...well?"

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed, his eyes floating open, blinking twice. Then he sprang into action, removing and capping the needle while jumping up spryly from the bed. "Let's go to the beach," he said, immediately starting for the door to the living room. He rolled his sleeve down and removed the belt from around his arm, sliding it back into the loops of his trousers even as he walked back to the front door.

Irene was so shocked it took her a few moments to follow after him. "The _beach?_" she asked, utterly incredulous. This sounded like the last thing Sherlock would be interested in.

"Yes, as I said, this needs field testing. You live right above a beach. What better excuse to go," he waved a hand vaguely out the window and in the direction of the area in question. He finished fastening his belt.

He was more coherent than the last time she'd seen him high. But she still felt strong reservations about getting him near water. "You do realise it's past midnight and freezing outside? This is the Mediterranean, not the Caribbean."

"And this is an order, not a request," he replied, surprising her with his low and silky tone, more playful than his usual impatient and commanding voice. He leaned in towards her and her eyes widened fractionally. Then he reached an arm past her and grabbed something off the wall behind her; she realised what it was as he slipped her coat over one of her shoulders. "There you are," he said with a satisfied smirk. "Now come along." With that he turned and headed out of the flat, leaving Irene to hesitate only a moment before following him.

They rode the lift down to the ground floor in silence, Sherlock tapping his hand against the metal bar along the wall, Irene focusing and steeling herself for whatever 'minding' task might lie ahead. When they reached the lobby of the high-rise, Sherlock strode gracefully out the door and straight onto the beach, his long legs annoying Irene by necessitating her hurrying to keep up.

The air was indeed cool but the coat did help. Sherlock didn't seem to mind the weather. In fact, to her surprise, he was slipping off his shoes and socks. "Terribly impractical on sand," he muttered. "Should have thought of that before we left." But he didn't sound nearly as annoyed as he normally would have. And Irene saw his point about the sand, but had fortunately grown accustomed to wearing sandals all the time living here. To her surprise, Sherlock set his shoes and socks aside next to a low wall.

"Aren't you worried someone will nick them?" she asked.

"People hardly ever nick things that are actually left out in the open," he reasoned, his head swivelling to glance up and down the beach as he spoke. "It's a strange phenomenon I've observed. What's that?" he asked.

She was having a bit of trouble keeping up with the vigorous pace his mind seemed to be working at, so it took her a moment to realise what he meant. He was staring at a little pool of light about half a kilometre down the beach. "Beachside bar for a hotel," she answered.

"Ah, excellent," Sherlock said. "That will work perfectly." This time Irene was able to anticipate that he was about to start striding in that direction, and she kept up alongside him.

"So what precisely does this 'field testing' experiment entail?" Irene asked.

"When I first started dabbling back at University, a major motivation was to test the drug's usefulness as a social lubricant," Sherlock explained. "But it was a poor and failed experiment. And I quit far too easily. I inhaled the drug several times at parties, and that was it. Hardly enough data to go on, and I had given up on attempts at social integration before I really started injecting. Which _should _produce a much stronger effect. At least in its pure form, cocaine serves to make one feel more at ease and confident in social scenarios. Which," he sounded a touch chagrinned, "have never really been my forte."

Irene raised an eyebrow. "So you want to use it to chat up women?" the thought was both bemusing and oddly discomforting all at once, though she couldn't quite name why.

That got his attention, and he looked down at her sharply. "What? No, don't be ridiculous," he said with a fervour that tended to make Irene think he _had_ tried that before. Though evidently not with great success, if Moriarty's nickname for Sherlock were accurate, as she had come to believe it most likely was. "No," Sherlock continued, "obviously I've got far more important things to deal with. But sometimes my work necessitates various kinds of social niceties in order to get at important information. I much prefer to avoid them entirely, which is one of the reasons it was so helpful to have Jo-" he stopped, a shadow passing over his features for a moment before his newfound easygoing attitude overtook it. He continued, "To have someone else to do it. But that's not a luxury I have at the present. Hence, the experiment." He sounded positively chuffed now, smiling down at her in delight before looking back up the beach.

With him seeming so uncharacteristically at ease, Sherlock's natural confidence _did_ seem to shine through in a much less irritating fashion than usual. Irene could see that already. And the silver moonlight reflecting off the water and illuminating the outline of his features against the clear night sky wasn't hurting, either.

Yes, Irene confessed to herself as they strolled along in companionable silence, she was attracted to him. There was no point in denying it, and in fact to do so would be to give the fact power, to treat it as if it were something dangerous that she couldn't control. Of course she could. It was just a simple biological fact, though a bit curious. She'd slept with men before, but it had been long enough since for her to have decided that she must really only prefer women now. Perhaps she ought to revise her personal label again to bisexual. Or perhaps Sherlock Holmes really was a complete anomaly.

But oh yes, he had indeed been right about her feelings for him back in London. _She_ hadn't needed her pulse taken to realise that. But then, she'd been right about him, too. Just look at the incredible lengths he'd gone to rescue her from a certain, horrifying death in Karachi. Unfortunately (or, perhaps, quite the opposite) they'd only been around one another for one tense night of escape in that instance. When she had only semi-jokingly called him her Knight in Shining Armour, he'd grown incredibly stoic. Even awkward. But then she'd frankly been a bit of an emotional wreck and very much in shock. Both had wound up seeming rather relieved to part ways the next day at the airport: him for London, her to Tel Aviv. Israel was, he had pointed out, full of English speakers and under enough western influence to still feel familiar, but far enough away from Britain for her to remain anonymous. He'd sent her off under an assumed name and with money and a cover story he'd secured to enable her to get past Israel's notoriously strict customs interview.

He wasn't awkward now. In fact he seemed confident. Almost a little _charming_, even. At the hiccup in her treacherous heartbeat, a small part of Irene longed for the days of awkward. At least that was simple. Fortunately, they had arrived at the hotel bar with its softly floating acoustic music and other people for Sherlock to speak to and focus on.

"Hmm," he mused quietly, for her ears only. "Those two women over there," he nodded subtly in the direction of two dark-haired twenty-something girls. "How long do you think it would take to discern precisely where they'll be tomorrow at one in the afternoon?"

Irene gave him a flat stare. "I thought you'd said this _wasn't_ about chatting up girls?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please. A large portion of the people I'm tracking are men, and a large portion of men have a sexual preference for women. It might often be useful to get to them through some of their dalliances," he explained, and Irene had to admit it made sense. In fact, it sounded a bit like something she would do.

But she wasn't about to make a bet about it. "I'm here to mind you, not humour you. Make a bet with yourself on how long that will take if you like," Irene replied evenly. "Besides, can't you normally figure that sort of thing out without speaking to someone?"

Sherlock pursed his lips momentarily, then turned back to look at the women. "They're Jewish-Americans, well off, visiting the homeland but not on a government sponsored Birthright trip or they wouldn't be at this hotel. They're more interested in the drinks and the nightlife than Zion, though their fathers paying for this trip most likely believe it's the latter. They'll probably stop by Old City Jerusalem out of deference but will mainly stick to the resort areas: here, the Dead Sea, and perhaps Galilee. As to where precisely they are going to be tomorrow, though, that will require speaking with them I'd say... not longer than ten minutes." Sherlock turned to Irene with a coyly self-satisfied look that was rather different than the stoic 'no need to comment on my brilliance' arrogance he normally displayed. Her iron will kept her from melting under the gaze. "Let's imagine for a moment that these women are here with one of my targets and treat this as a trial run. Come with me, but stay quiet and follow my lead." Without another moment's hesitation, he strode over to the tall table where the two young women were standing.

_Ah, this is what he likes,_ Irene thought, revising the assessment she'd made the last time he'd been to see her. It made much more sense to her than just liking the cocaine for the pure rush of it. _He likes feeling at ease, powerful. _Irene swallowed, then followed him over to the table in question.

* * *

**Note: **Yes, I know that's an evil place to leave things. What can I say, I think writing Irene has made me slightly sadistic. But the next chapter will be up soon.


	3. 2: Up His Sleeve, chapter 2

**Note: **Wow, quite a lot of people have added this story to their alerts and favorites already. I'm flattered! Thank you all, and thank you especially to those who've left such lovely reviews. That's very rewarding for me and I've loved chatting with you all about the story so far. I've written this whole thing in a vacuum and frankly really love it, but it's fantastic to see it out there and resonating with some people.

* * *

**2: Up His Sleeve  
**(2/2)

"Excuse me," Sherlock said, as he stopped in front of the table. The two young women looked up in surprise. "I don't mean to bother you, but I was wondering, are you locals?"

The girls exchanged looks. "No," the taller woman replied in a friendly manner. "We're on vacation. We're Americans." As if their accents didn't give them away instantly.

"Oh, we thought you might be from here," Sherlock said in disappointment. "This was a fairly impromptu holiday and we were wondering what some of the best places to visit might be, either around Tel Aviv or the country in general." Ah, that was clever, Irene thought. They might mention where they were going the next day right out. Or if they named places they'd already been, it might be easier to deduce from the list of likely destinations Sherlock had mentioned what places they _hadn't_ yet been that they might be visiting tomorrow.

"Well," the taller young woman continued, "we just got in today. And this is our first time in Israel."

Irene noted the slight look of disappointment on Sherlock's face, but to her surprise it didn't turn to instant annoyance and impatience as things usually seemed to with him. Instead he replied, "Oh, the same as us. We're all Israel virgins then, it seems." Irene couldn't help but note his carefully suggestive word choice. "But I'm guessing you weren't so daft as we were and came with an itinerary?"

The shorter woman answered non-committally, "We have a couple places booked."

The taller woman bit her lip, then asked a little haltingly, "What sorts of places are you looking for? Something romantic?" her eyes flicked briefly to Irene then back to Sherlock.

It was the sort of insinuation that she knew Sherlock was not normally able to pick up on, but evidently the cocaine was doing its job, because he just gave a low, soft chuckle. "Oh, it's not like that. Melanie here is my sister," he nodded to Irene. "But blimey, where have my manners been? I'm James," he stuck his hand out to the taller, and clearly more interested girl, who grinned and shook his hand.

"Like James Bond?" she asked as she shook his hand, and Irene had to work very hard at not rolling her eyes. Fortunately it looked as though the other American was having a similar reaction.

"You think I'm a secret agent?" Sherlock asked, leaning in on the table.

"Maybe," the young woman replied with a mischievous smile. "I'm Sarah and this is my friend Ruth."

Sherlock gave the other woman a nod. "Well you must have chosen the spots you're going to for a reason. Really, I didn't plan at all. Just hopped a plane from London on a whim, really, because it's Melanie's birthday and I wanted to surprise her. Unfortunately I'm wretched with planning ahead, it seems. Not a very good brother."

"Aw, you sound like a great brother to me," Sarah replied, clearly falling hard for the 'doddering Englishman' act. On the one hand, it was clichéd to the point of embarrassment. On the other, Irene couldn't help but be utterly amazed at how effectively he was pulling it off. "And sure, we'd love to give you some tips."

"Splendid!" Sherlock replied, "But you'll have to allow me to buy a round of drinks in thanks first. What would you two fancy?"

Evidently having given up on any hope of being rid of this stranger, Ruth replied, "I'll have a Manhattan."

"A Manhattan for Ruth," Sherlock noted with a nod. "Sarah?"

Sarah pursed her lips together coyly a moment, then replied, "Vodka martini - shaken, not stirred." This time Irene _did_ roll her eyes, but so did Ruth. In fact, the young woman gave Irene a little appreciative knowing smile, as if to say _you're used to putting up with this, then._ In fact, Irene most certainly wasn't used to this from Sherlock, but she _was_ used to make believe and gave the young woman a nod and a long-suffering sigh.

Sherlock blinked momentarily in confusion at the silent exchange, but pulled it together quickly. "Anything for you, sister?" he asked Irene sweetly, and she could suddenly imagine just how annoying he must be to Mycroft.

Irene was terribly glad for his permission to finally say something. "I think I'll have my usual gin and tonic. But let me come help you carry, brother."

They headed away from the table towards the bar, where Sherlock gave their orders. He leaned on the bar casually, giving Irene a smug look that she desperately wanted to wipe from his face. "What?" he asked. "If you're impressed by my skill, you should feel free to say so. It _is_ all going remarkably well, don't you think? I feel quite relaxed. So far a very successful test."

"Why, because you managed to charm some American co-ed into thinking you're James Bond? Please, all that takes is an English accent," she scoffed. "Most men don't find it nearly such an accomplishment to get a woman to talk to them." As soon as the words were out, Irene regretted them. She didn't really mean it to sound like an insult, but it certainly came off that way. Sherlock's eyes narrowed a little and he chewed the inside of his cheek. Irene looked away. "I mean, really," she said, trying to lighten the mood, "all that 'vodka martini - shaken not stirred' business? I think her friend and I both wanted to slap her for that one."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "Yes, what was that was about?"

Irene stared at him. "Have you never actually seen a James Bond film?" she asked.

"I thought those were books," Sherlock replied in confusion, and Irene couldn't help laughing.

He really was, as John had said in one of his blogs, spectacularly ignorant about some things. It was almost endearing. The relaxed feel of their exchange almost made her forget the reason he was operating with such ease and charm. That is, until the bartender set four drinks on the counter. Sherlock paid with cash, then slid her and Ruth's drinks towards Irene, taking the martini in one hand and what looked to be a Scotch in the other. Irene's tone sobered, and she put a hand on his arm to stop him just as he was turning back towards the table.

"Is that for you?" she asked, indicating the Scotch.

"Yes, why?" he asked.

"Is that really a good idea, given the," taking in the people around her, she continued, "_drinks_ you've already had this evening?"

Sherlock gave her a defiant look. "I don't see why not. It intensifies the feeling of euphoria and further removes inhibitions. I've never tried it personally, but it might be worth a secondary experiment while we're at it."

"And you don't see how that might be a problem in this particular scenario?" Irene warned. Even in his current sharpened state, he probably didn't quite get her meaning. So she lowered her voice as she added, "You're the one who keeps saying this is a field test, remember? You want an accurate simulation. Are you really planning to try to get women associated with Moriarty's network into bed with you?" she hissed, wondering if he'd even realised that was where this act was headed if he kept it up.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, studying her carefully. It was a gaze Irene was used to, and she'd never let it make her uncomfortable before. Yet somehow in Sherlock's current state the look was even more piercing and aware than usual. As if he had suddenly opened several additional categories of information to himself, particularly those social areas he'd been so keen to boost with the drug. Well, evidently it was working, because she normally wouldn't have to worry about him seeing through her so fully. A knowing, insufferably proud look spread across his face as he remarked in a low, rumbling voice, "Jealous, Irene?"

It took all of her experience and training to not even blink, to give no sign at all of what she was feeling as she replied evenly, "You're paying me to mind you while you conduct these experiments, remember? I'm simply trying to do my job. This," she nodded at the Scotch, "is a horrible idea."

Sherlock leered as he lifted the glass to his lips. "Here's to horrible ideas, then," he said, taking a defiant swig of the liquid, draining half the glass in one go, then turning and heading back towards their table.

Irene felt a shudder run through her that genuinely had nothing to do with her admitted attraction or his newfound insufferable social confidence. She felt like she'd just splashed cold water on her face. The cocaine was evidently working such wonders for him that he'd even been charming _her. _

But now Irene realised, with a growing sense of horror and dread, that she wasn't actually sure how she was expected, as his minder, to restrain him or stop him should things actually become dangerous. She was only accustomed to overpowering men who let her. That wasn't really the same as trying to handle someone much stronger than herself in the event of him not wanting to be restrained. Irene's pulse quickened and she felt edgy as she returned to the table.

"So," Sherlock was saying, "where are you heading tomorrow?"

"Over to the Dead Sea to hike up Masada," Sarah said. Adding, with a roll of her eyes, "Ruth's idea. But she's agreed to go to one of the resorts there for the night for those famous beauty treatments, massages, things like that."

_There_, Irene thought with a bit of relief. _We found out where they're going tomorrow. Mission accomplished._ "That sounds like a fantastic way to spend the afternoon," Irene cut in. "I think I'd like to go check out Jerusalem personally. And since it _is_ my birthday, after all, James promised me it would be my choice. Actually," she gave Sherlock a pointed look, "we really should be getting back to our rooms if we're going to get up in time to see all of the old city."

"Mmm," Sherlock took another sip of his Scotch, and gave Irene a challenging, mischievous look that made her stomach drop in fear. Looking back to Sarah, he said, "Personally I think yours is the best plan out of all of them. Lie in at a comfortable resort. Besides," he said, a suggestive grin creeping onto his face, "I can think of much more fun ways to work up a sweat than hiking some hill."

Irene's mouth nearly dropped open with the surprise and horror she felt. It occurred to her with dread that while the cocaine certainly provided a large boost in Sherlock's social confidence, it did nothing towards actually giving him the requisite experience or good judgment to know when to say what sort of thing. Or when not to. She certainly knew from her encounters with him back in London that Sherlock did have a sex drive, albeit much more latent than with your average man. And cocaine certainly was known for increasing that. But she got the feeling he had absolutely no interest in Sarah and was only trying to get a rise out of Irene.

Not that this registered to the Americans. "_Excuse_ me?" Ruth asked, giving Sherlock a death glare. Sarah for her part even looked a little shocked, and Irene noted with a touch of pity that there was a large difference between enjoying flirting with a mysterious stranger and actually wanting to sleep with him. She was sure Sherlock himself didn't understand the line he was crossing, having had no experience in this realm. She had to get him out of here, for everyone's sake.

"All right, James," Irene hissed, taking the glass from Sherlock's hand and setting it on the table. "I think you've had enough." To the young women, she said, "I apologise, my brother already had quite a lot to drink before we got here."

Meanwhile, the raised voices had caught the attention of two tall, well-muscled boys of about 20. They stepped towards the table, and one of them asked Sarah in an Israeli accent, "Is he bothering you?"

But before Sarah could say anything, Sherlock exclaimed loudly, "Oh, come _on_! She's wearing cheap perfume, a push-up bra, and flirting with a perfect stranger ten years her senior. I hardly think you're doing her any favours with this 'rescue'."

Before anyone else could react, Sarah had thrown her drink squarely into Sherlock's face, causing him to shout and reel back a few steps as the alcohol came in contact with his eyes. Irene moved to stand between him and the hapless young woman, but the two young Israeli men had moved first. Shouting in angry Hebrew, each grabbed Sherlock under one shoulder, hauled him to the edge of the bar area, and tossed him down the steps where he landed in a heap on the sand. It was only then that Irene noticed the symbols on the young men's green shirts, their cropped haircuts, and (most alarmingly) the AK-47s slung over their backs. These were no ordinary 20 year old boys: they were members of the Israeli Defense Force.

_Shit shit shit. _A surge of panicked adrenaline propelled Irene down off the platform and next to Sherlock just as he got to his feet, eyes blazing angrily. Knowing precisely the sort of thing he'd been up to these past six months and being fully aware of his dangerously altered state, Irene knew she had to act quickly. She dug her fingernails into Sherlock's shoulder and hissed, "_Wait!_"

It was enough to get him to turn his head to look down at her for a moment, though he seemed entirely disinclined to actually hold back. Either he didn't realise the men had automatic weapons or (more likely) in his altered state he didn't really care. Either way, he was running the risk of getting them both killed. "They're not worth it," Irene said. But he still looked on the edge of snapping, and she knew logic wasn't going to work on him right now. Switching to a low, throaty voice she continued, "Besides, I've got half a mind to throw you back down on the sand and fuck you right here." Sherlock froze, and Irene let that statement hang in the air for a second, then added with a smirk, "But I figure my bed would be more comfortable."

_That_ certainly got Sherlock's attention. He was already looking fairly far gone from the drugs and alcohol. Now his eyes looked positively wild and his breathing hitched. He looked at her warily, as if unsure she was really suggesting what he thought she was. And as if not wanting to show his own hand. Irene gazed back at him steadily, hungrily. As the reality of her suggestion slowly sunk in, his gaze moved down to rake over her body a second before returning to her face. There was a tense moment of uncertainty, and Irene was reminded that this was foreign territory for him. She could only pray his inhibitions might be lowered enough to say yes. Sherlock blinked, seemingly unable to speak, but finally managed a nod.

Feeling enormously relieved, though still thrumming with adrenaline, Irene tugged on Sherlock's shirt front. "Come on, then," she said, voice still low and suggestive as she turned and started striding quickly back up the beach to her high rise. Sherlock followed without hesitation. He quickly caught up to her and put a hand on her side before she swatted him away and gave him a reproachful look. "My bedroom, remember?" she said. He said nothing, only kept walking, quickening his pace a little.

When they reached the entrance of the lobby, Sherlock was about to head straight inside, when Irene stopped. "Sherlock!" she called to him, and he turned around to look at her in frustration.

"Irene," he growled back warningly through gritted teeth.

She bent down and picked up his shoes and socks from where he'd left them, then shoved them into his arms as she walked past. "Take a breath and calm down before you give yourself a heart attack," she chided lightly, though she remembered from what he'd told her the last time he had dropped by that there was actually a possibility of that sort of thing on cocaine. She let none of her significant worry enter her expression or manner, though, as she strolled by him, through the lobby, and into the lift.

They rode up to her floor in tense silence, Sherlock's uneven breathing the only sound to be heard. He seemed to be attempting (not very successfully) to bring his respiration at least somewhat under control. But as soon as she let them into her flat, he tossed his shoes aside and reached out for her again, his breathing instantly becoming ragged. This time, Irene slapped his hands with a practiced, hard _smack_. He drew back, wincing in surprise. She became very aware that they were now standing just outside her bedroom. Calmly, she said, "Just let me get something from the bathroom." He gave a curt nod and she turned and quickly stepped through to the en suite, closing the door behind her.

Irene allowed herself a moment to let out a long, shaky breath that she felt she'd been holding in since the moment those IDF soldiers had seized Sherlock. Leaning against the door, she took a second to steady her breathing and her hands. It wouldn't do to delay long. She might lose her nerve. Irene reached inside a drawer and took out the item she was looking for, holding it tightly in her right hand. Then she opened the door quickly.

Sherlock was standing directly on the other side. He started to lean in towards her, but Irene moved first, jabbing the needle into the exposed skin of his clavicle and pushing the plunger down quickly.

"Fuck!" he exclaimed, jerking upright. "What-?" But already, Sherlock was wavering on his feet. He blinked, shaking his head blearily as Irene gently pulled him forward, then spun him around. When his calves hit the edge of the tub, he stumbled backward. Irene used her grip on his arms to slow his descent, keeping him from outright falling into the tub. As it was, he still landed on his back with a _thud_, his legs sticking out the end of the bath. He blinked in confusion. The drug didn't work on him quite as quickly as the last time she'd used it, but she wagered the cocaine was to blame for that. Sherlock was still struggling, trying to push himself up from his precarious position.

"Shhh," Irene hushed, gently putting a hand on his chest and urging him backwards. "It's going to knock you out sooner or later. Better for you to already be lying down when it really hits." Sherlock looked shocked for a second, then his will seemed to collapse along with his body as he let out a sigh and lay his head back down, fixing his gaze on the ceiling.

By the time Irene had stepped back, flicked off the light, and closed the door to the bathroom, Sherlock was most likely asleep. But she still waited a good hour, listening for any signs of movement, before she allowed herself to get in bed and fall asleep herself.

* * *

The next morning, Irene awoke with the sun. Glancing at the clock, she noted that she'd barely been asleep four hours. Still, she felt infinitely more at rest than she had when she'd fallen asleep. Last night's little 'field test' had wound up being much more than she'd bargained for, and had soberly reminded her just how susceptible the human mind was to the effects of strong chemicals. And she wasn't only thinking of Sherlock's drugs. Irene had let her own hormones carry her away, had let herself be charmed by Sherlock's unusual confidence. And it had been very dangerous for them both. She was lucky she'd been able to pull herself together and think fast enough to lure Sherlock away.

Getting up, she went to her bathroom door and knocked. Hearing no reply, she opened the door and threw on the lights. Sherlock was still lying very much asleep in the tub. Irene walked calmly over to the bath, turned the dial all the way to cold, then threw on the shower.

Sherlock sputtered awake instantly as the icy water hit him. His eyes flew open, and he looked completely panicked and lost for a moment before he recognized the woman standing over him, her arms now folded as she looked down at him imperiously. Scrambling awkwardly to his feet, Sherlock slammed the dial in to turn off the shower. "Jesus, Irene!" he snarled, pushing the wet hair out of his eyes. "What the hell was that for?"

"Sorry," she said, meaning it to a degree. "I wasn't entirely sure what the mixture of cocaine, alcohol, and a sedative might do. Didn't want to risk you slipping into a coma."

After a second, Sherlock must have noticed the small apology in her gaze, because instead of shouting, he merely growled, "These are my only clothes, you know."

"Then they could probably do with a washing," she surmised. "Why don't you put that on," she pointed to a dark blue terry cloth dressing gown hanging next to her more often used silk one. "Then bring me your clothes and we can send them down to have them cleaned on the double."

The muscles around Sherlock's mouth worked in annoyance for a few seconds before he evidently saw the wisdom in this. "Fine," he said with a scowl, then pushed Irene out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

For her part, Irene was just relieved to find that Sherlock was alive and mostly functional, though most likely to be irritable for any number of reasons, not least of which was the cocaine crash she had seen him go through the last time. Though perhaps the sedative would help with that a bit. Irene rang for someone on the high rise staff to come collect Sherlock's clothing. Then she went into the kitchen and started making coffee. By the time Sherlock emerged from the room in the dressing gown with the wet clothing draped over his arm, the coffee was done. "Care for a cup?" she asked.

"No," Sherlock replied, and she was fairly certain that he was only being contrary out of spite. There was a knock at the door, and Irene got up to answer it. The high rise staff member insisted that he would take care of the clothing quickly as Irene took it from Sherlock and handed it off. Once that was done, she closed the door and headed back to the kitchen to pour herself some cereal.

"You should at least eat something," she suggested lightly. Sherlock said nothing, but pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and sank into it heavily. She put a bowl of cereal in front of him just in case, but he didn't seem interested in it. The silence stretched between them as Irene took the seat opposite him and began reading the morning English-language paper. If Sherlock didn't want to discuss anything that had happened the night before, Irene understood. It would actually be a bit of a relief. She was always for pretending nothing had happened. That she hadn't actually felt a bit jealous of the young woman he'd been flirting with. That he hadn't got out of control. That she hadn't tricked him into coming back so she could sedate him.

After a few long minutes, Sherlock said quietly, "I wasn't going to hurt you." Irene looked up and was surprised to see that he looked genuinely distressed, if back to his usual self and not making eye contact. Somehow, that was comforting. He continued, haltingly, "I only approached you that way because of the effect of the drugs. Because you said you wanted to..." He caught her eye for the briefest of awkward moments, then looked away again. "But under the influence of drugs or not, I would never try to-"

"I know," Irene cut him off. He finally looked at her squarely and she gave him a small, conciliatory smile. "I told you what I knew you wanted to hear. I had to get you back here somehow." Her tone was mildly apologetic. She knew Sherlock was probably mortified that he'd inadvertently revealed his sexual attraction to her. But he was a fool if he thought she wasn't already aware of it. Irene continued, pointedly, "Because you _would_ have tried to hurt those soldiers. And whether or not you succeeded, that could have wound up being the death of both of us."

"No, you're right," Sherlock said, sighing and leaning heavily on the table. He sounded both logical and embarrassed as he said, "You used your advantages well and you kept me safe. That was your job. I can hardly fault you for doing it. After all, that's what I'm paying you for." Sherlock looked away. "I wasn't in my right mind. I'm sorry," he said, and she believed that was the first time she'd ever heard the man apologize. It softened her attitude even further.

_Damn him_. It seemed no matter what he did or what dark parts of him were revealed to her, Irene was still unable to feel anything but a magnetic pull towards the man. In an attempt to lighten the mood a little, she noted glibly, "I think if this field test has shown you anything, it's that you should never, ever consume alcohol whilst under the influence of cocaine." Sherlock only exhaled softly in acknowledgement. Prodding at him further, she teased, "So, is that how things tended to go when you experimented in uni?"

Sherlock's mouth twisted into a grimace, and his eyes remained fixed off in the distance. "Yes," he said in a thin tone that was completely devoid of humour, "something like that."

Irene felt a pang she couldn't quite name and certainly hadn't expected. There was something unsettling about that. It wasn't only that Sherlock had revealed an old wound, however obliquely; it was that she _cared_. Theoretically they should be able to laugh the tension between them off, to put it down to the effects of the drug. Temporary insanity on both their parts. Instead, an uneasy silence now stretched between them. "Eat something," Irene chided finally.

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "I probably should," he said, as if it were just occurring to him that food was something the body needed in order to live. "I haven't eaten anything since I left Marseilles."

It was Irene's turn to look confused. "You came here from France?" she asked. She'd assumed he must have been coming from the east if he were stopping by Tel Aviv on the way to Morocco. "That's a bit out of your way, isn't it?" she asked. Sherlock froze, saying nothing, and sure as hell not looking at her.

_Oh_, Irene thought finally, as the realisation hit her. He hadn't stopped by Tel Aviv because it was on his way; he had gone hundreds of miles _out _of his way. To come see her. That was no mere business arrangement or even safety precaution for his experiment. That was a deep, aching need. And not even necessarily sexual in nature. Irene was reminded that Sherlock had no one else to speak to or spend time with, and hadn't had for nine months. Suddenly the way she'd led him on the night before felt much more cruel, even if it truly had only been for his own safety. Irene tried to think of something to say, but felt completely at a loss. She turned her focus back to her food. Sherlock remained quiet.

In fact, Sherlock was completely silent for several hours as they waited for his clothes, her watching the news and him just staring off into space in thought. When his clothing did come back from being cleaned, he ran off back to the guest room and changed quickly. When he came back out, she saw him carefully replacing the tin foil into a pouch in his shoulder bag. Finally, he looked at her. "Goodbye, Irene," he said curtly. He was out the door before she had a chance to respond.


	4. 3: Towards the Heart

**Note: **I considered making this two chapters, but felt like this particular story worked better when read all together. So it's a bit longer. Hopefully you won't mind.

**Warnings:** Irene is a dominatrix, and Sherlock is a drug addict. This is who they are, canonically. So as usual, this story contains drug use. Without specifics, I feel like I also have to warn that this part also contains BDSM elements. But it's about as much of a fun romp as _Requiem for a Dream _is. Just be warned that this particular story contains some very dark, mature themes and content for the sake of frank character exploration.

* * *

**3: Towards the Heart  
**(1/1)

It had only been six weeks since she'd last seen Sherlock Holmes, and Irene had grown accustomed to only seeing him at longer intervals. So she was quite surprised one warm afternoon, as she'd been lounging around in shorts and a tank top, to open her door to what she thought was a delivery she'd been waiting for and to find Sherlock instead. The first thing she noticed was that he looked tan. His voice sounded stuffy as he asked, "May I come in?"

"Of course," she said, stepping back and ushering him inside before closing the door. He was wearing a pair of black trousers and a white button up shirt. And, to her surprise, _sunglasses_, which made him really look not himself. The scowl on his face was the only thing that reassured her that he wasn't wearing them as part of a holiday. Well, that and the fact that she knew what sorts of things he'd been out doing for the past nearly eleven months, and they were far from enjoyable.

Sherlock set his small duffle bag down on the kitchen counter as he made his way to the living room, and it was only then that she noticed the cast on his right hand. Only his thumb was left free, but it didn't look like he had particularly good mobility in it either. The right arm of his shirt had been sliced off just above the wrist, presumably to allow him to get the bulky cast in and out of the sleeve. Irene raised an eyebrow at him as he paced anxiously about the living room. "Hit by another car?" she asked, the tiniest note of humour in her voice.

If she could see Sherlock's eyes, she was sure he would be glaring at her judging by the way he grumbled, "A bouncer in Phuket. I got too careless in spying on the establishment he worked for. He decided to dissuade me by stomping repeatedly on my hand."

Irene winced at that. "That sounds... painful." That was an understatement.

Sherlock took his sunglasses off and flung them onto the coffee table in annoyance. "It's damned inconvenient is what it is. Do you know how difficult it is to do the work I need to this way?" He ground the heel of his left palm into his eye, visibly agitated.

"Very, I'd imagine," Irene conceded. "How much longer does it have to stay on?"

"It's been on two weeks. I'll give it two more before I have it removed." Sherlock sneered. "The doctor said he wanted it on six weeks total, but I can hardly afford that, can I?" He sniffed strongly, but it didn't seem to clear up his nose. He made an aggravated noise. "Do you have any tissues?"

"Guest bathroom," she nodded in the direction of the room he normally stayed in when he was here. He stalked off without a thank you, which wasn't really unusual for him. But this generally agitated and annoyed state wasn't how she was used to seeing him. Typically he was collected, maybe thrilled over the prospect of one of his 'experiments'. Oh, sure, they had involved his drug use, but when she'd seen him just six weeks ago, that had still only been an occasional habit. Perhaps that had changed.

"Dammit!" she heard him shout after a few seconds of blowing his nose.

"All right?" she called back. He only gave another frustrated growl, and Irene cautiously entered the guest room and went to stand in the doorway to the bathroom.

Sherlock was leaning over the sink, a wad of tissue clasped tightly under his nose with his left hand. Both the tissue and the sink were spotted with blood. Under the bright lights of the room, Irene could finally see his reddened eyes and slightly enlarged pupils. _Ah_, she thought. She'd known a lot of clients who used cocaine in the more traditional way. Truthfully, Sherlock was the first person she'd known who injected it. From what she'd read recently, IV cocaine was a much harder hitting drug than its popular party counterpart. "I didn't realise you snorted it," she remarked cautiously.

In the mirror, Sherlock gave her an annoyed look. "I don't. I did at first, very early in university, but hated it. For obvious reasons." He gestured at his own reflection with his free, broken hand. "Not to mention the high is practically useless. I may as well just be flushing the stuff down the loo. But I can't inject very well either with the cast or my left hand. I tried."

"Why not just take it easy until you're healed? Surely hunting down Moriarty's men can wait two more weeks?" Irene suggested. He'd told her the cocaine was just for when he really needed to think quickly and clearly about the work. She wanted to believe that was still the case, but the way Sherlock looked away from her gaze in the mirror told her otherwise. Well, then, the problem was _he_ couldn't wait a few weeks. He must have lapsed back into full on addiction, then. Irene tried desperately not to care, but had already realised the last time she'd seen him that she did. And she'd realised he did, too. On that note, she asked quietly, "Why are you here, Sherlock?"

He took a moment to pull the tissue away from his nose. When he saw it was no longer bleeding, he tossed the tissue in the bin and turned the faucet on to wash his face and hand. As he did this, he said, "I need your help with something."

"Information?" she asked, almost hoping it were that. She thought she'd given him everything he could use to find Moriarty's people, but there might still be something... "Or another one of your 'experiments'?"

"Neither," he said, using the hand towel to blot his face and dry his left hand. He seemed to be stalling, but finally turned to actually look at her. "I need a steady hand. One that won't keep missing the vein."

Irene felt cold all of a sudden. All pretence of professionalism fell from her face for just a moment as she replied, "Sherlock, I can't do that."

His brow furrowed angrily. "Oh, I see," he spat, "so it's perfectly fine to jab me with a sedative against my will, but God forbid you should help me with something I actually want to inject." She pursed her lips, unsure how to counter that, or if she should. The last time, she'd used the sedative for his own good, and he knew that. He was merely agitated from withdrawal and she wasn't going to get in a fight with him in this state. After a moment, Sherlock reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out his wallet, holding it open for her. "Take your money. Then will you do it?"

Irene thought about saying no, about saying she wasn't someone who would simply do anything he wanted for the equivalent of £250. That she was a professional who worked in a very specific, well-paid, in-demand arena. But she knew he'd see through it. That might be true with her other clients, but twice now he'd paid her to mind him as he shot up. Frankly, it was her own fault she was in this position now. If she protested further, he would demand to know why. And the real reasons weren't something she wanted to discuss, or even really think about. Another part of her thought about saying yes but refusing his payment, telling him (truthfully) that she thought anything was better than him trying to shoot up left-handed in the street somewhere. That she would rather have him here, safe, because she was his... Irene stopped herself. His _what_? She'd edged dangerously close to that area she didn't want to think about.

"All right," she said stoically, taking the money to convince herself more than him that this was strictly professional. For his part, Sherlock didn't seem aware of her warring sentiments. In fact, he'd always seemed to very much assume that she was only doing this for profit. Irene felt a pang of guilt at letting him continue to think that. The man kept flying hundreds of miles out of his way to see her because she was the only person he could see or talk to as himself anymore. And, she admitted, because heclearly had some degree of feelings for her that she wasn't able to define any more than she was able to define her own. She'd realised that the last time he'd visited.

But Irene doubted it had ever crossed his mind that she was in the exact same position. That _he_ was the only person who knew she was alive and whom she could be herself with. And that had to be complicated not only by the ever-present tension between them, but also by the fact that he was always high or about to be. How could she relax around him in such a state? How could she ever even begin to entertain the notion of there being something more there? _If things were different..._ she would sometimes wonder. But they weren't. And that was that. Tucking the money into the pocket of her shorts, she asked, "I take it it's in your bag?" He nodded. "Go sit down on the couch."

They entered the main living space and he did as she said, sitting with his back against the armrest and with his legs stretched out. Irene grabbed the necessary items from his bag and brought them into the living room, setting them down on the coffee table before perching herself delicately on the edge of the couch beside him. She started trying to roll up his left sleeve, but the shirt was tight around his arm. "Probably easier if you take it off," she said, surprising herself with how clinical and not at all suggestive her tone sounded. There was nothing sexy about this.

Irene had started to fill the spoon with distilled water and a little bit of cotton wool as she'd seen Sherlock do, but set it down carefully on the table when she saw how much trouble Sherlock was having getting his shirt unbuttoned with one hand. "Goddamned metacarpal fractures," he muttered. She waved his hand away and started to undo the buttons herself with practiced swiftness.

"You know, maybe you ought to avoid shirts with buttons until you're healed," Irene pointed out.

Sherlock glared at her as he sat up, untucking the tails of his shirt from his trousers and starting to wriggle out of it. "I can't wear t-shirts. No short sleeves," he said flatly. "So what should I wear, long-sleeved t-shirts? _Jumpers?"_ he sounded utterly disgusted, and Irene allowed herself a small smile. Even in his degenerated state and on the run, he could still maintain a degree of snobbery. It was good to know Sherlock was in there somewhere.

As he finished struggling out of his shirt and tossed it aside in annoyance, the humour in Irene's eyes faded. Now she understood what he'd meant about short sleeves: both of his elbows and his left forearm were dotted with angry red marks and several white abscesses. "Jesus, Sherlock," she chided, in spite of herself. "It's a wonder you haven't given yourself a massive infection by now."

"They're not infected, they're sterile," he scoffed, offended. "It's not as though I'm reusing dirty needles. I would never be that careless. They're just caused by missing the vein. Hence, requesting your help. But if you're too squeamish I can always leave and keep trying to do it myself," he spat, sitting straight up, nostrils flaring.

Irene instinctively put a hand on his chest and eased him back into a reclined position against the armrest as she said, "All right, calm down. I said I'd do it and I will. Just take a breath." She could feel his heart beating hard under her hand. In fact, she realised, it had sped up since she'd touched him. For a second, their eyes connected, then Irene drew her hand back as if burned and looked away. Silently, she undid his belt and started to slide it out of the loops of his trousers. Sherlock lifted his hips slightly to help her free it. Neither of them said anything as she looped the belt tightly around his left arm, then turned to the spoon and the tin foil package. Opening it, Irene took a pinch of the white powder, about the amount she'd seen him use the last time, and dropped it into the water on the spoon. Glancing back over her shoulder, she saw him eyeing the process lustfully. "Is that the right amount?" she asked.

"More," Sherlock replied, his voice sounding suddenly dry. He licked his lips.

Irene took another pinch and dropped a little of the powder in. "Is that enough?"

"The rest," he said, indicating the half of a pinch still left in her fingers. That would make for nearly twice as much as he'd taken just six weeks ago. How had things progressed so quickly? Irene felt vaguely sick as she dropped the rest of the cocaine in, then turned away from him to stir then draw up the liquid with the needle.

Irene turned back to him, making sure to keep her eyes fixed on his forearm and elbow. That way it was just an arm, just veins. Not Sherlock. Turning the arm a little, she found a decent vein on the radial side of the forearm that was free from abscesses or other marks. She grabbed an alcohol swab and cleaned the area, then reached up and loosened the belt to restore circulation. Taking a deep, quiet breath to steady her hands, Irene slid the tiny needle gently into the vein. The arm remained still as she pulled the plunger back and drew a drop of blood, confirming that she had hit. Irene had absolutely no fear of needles, but that didn't stop her from being struck with a wave of nausea. She couldn't help glancing up at Sherlock's face to confirm he really wanted her to do this. But his eyes were staring hungrily at the needle in his arm, and she realised with resignation that it was a moot question. Her eyes turned back to his arm as she slowly depressed the plunger and watched the poisonous liquid drain out of the syringe and into Sherlock's bloodstream.

Removing, capping, and setting aside the needle gave Irene the smallest feeling of relief. She let out a sigh that was covered by Sherlock's loud gasp of pleasure as the shot of cocaine traveled up his arm and into his heart. His muscles seized up and his head fell back, open-mouthed and silent as the rush hit him. After about twenty seconds, he started to breathe again, his flushed chest rising and falling rapidly as beads of sweat broke out all over. Sherlock closed his eyes and hummed lowly. Irene couldn't quite take her eyes off the sight. She was surprised to find that the arousing image also horrified her. Perhaps because she had seen by now that the drug could become as vicious as it now was pleasurable. It could, and would, turn on him in an instant.

Slowly, Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling. "Thank you," he sighed. "That's much better." And he _did_ sound much more relaxed, not at all agitated and angry as he had been before. But deep down Irene knew chasing this euphoria was the reason he'd become so irritable in the first place. After a few moments, Sherlock commented, his tone detached and scientific, "I imagine my heart sped up when you touched me out of a fight or flight response. No one touches me unless they're trying to kill me."

Irene was terribly glad his gaze was on the ceiling, because she couldn't help closing her eyes at the painful twinge in her chest. It occurred to her that Sherlock's claim that the cocaine would help the work didn't seem to be bearing out. Oh, she'd seen it set his mind into overdrive, even for him. But his body kept only seeming worse for the wear. Who knew how often he was trailing deadly men while dangerously distracted by the drug, either because it was or wasn't flowing through his veins at the time. No, she wagered he'd have been making better progress with Moriarty's network if he'd stayed sober. Not that telling him that now would help.

Sherlock looked at her finally, his eyes glassy and pupils wide as he remarked with a small smile, "Not quite your usual work, is it?"

Irene managed not to swallow hard, but instead kept her face an emotionless mask as she replied, "Whatever pays the bills, I suppose." It was an awful lie, and a sober Sherlock Holmes would have spotted it a mile away. In reality, she was fighting with the bile in her stomach.

Sherlock studied her with a lazy, puzzled expression for at least a minute before asking finally, "So what _is_ your usual work, then?"

"You know what I do," she replied flatly, not sure where he was going with this.

"In principal," Sherlock mused, "I know that men pay you to humiliate them in order to fulfill some sort of fantasy, but I can't imagine why."

"I wouldn't expect you to," Irene replied. For all his brilliance and knowledge, she would guess fetishes were beyond his personal comprehension. Not his area.

Sherlock frowned at her answer. Then, gazing at her steadily, he said, "So show me."

Irene felt her heart leap into her throat. _No, he can't really mean that_, she thought. "Show you what?"

"You know," Sherlock said, gesturing lazily rather than laying on the innuendo. "Your normal work. And after all, I've paid you. I'm your client," he reasoned, and she wanted to hit him for sounding so calm and detached about it. "I've required different things thus far, but I'm curious. Show me what it is you do. Treat me like any other client. Perhaps I do want to try another experiment."

The fact that uneasiness was her immediate reaction to his suggestion worried Irene. She'd never been shy or cautious about working with anyone. Why should it be any different with Sherlock? At first she wanted to chalk it up to a concern about his total naivety in this arena. But she realised that wasn't accurate. Yes, he was sexually inexperienced, but the man had worked countless lurid crimes. He could hardly be someone who was easily shocked. Could it possibly be her _own_ fears that were making her heart pound anxiously? _That_ was the only thing that would shock Irene Adler. She slammed the lid shut on that thought instantly. No, she told herself, there was no reason at all to refuse him. Besides, this should be a comfort zone for her, an area which she dominated in every possible sense of the word. It had to be much easier than acting the part of the grim reaper helping to take his life away.

"Fine," she replied stonily, instantly turning very much into The Woman as she got to her feet. Her tone was terse and commanding as she said, "Go to the guest bedroom." She had to stop herself from saying 'your bedroom', a mistake she'd never have made with another client. He didn't move. "_Now_," she said.

"Ohhh, I see," Sherlock replied, lazily swinging his legs off the couch and standing up to face her. "This is supposed to be part of the 'domination'. Ordering me around, is that it? Very well." He turned and strolled into the bedroom. Irene watched him go, fuming for a moment at the temerity of his being so casual about the whole thing. That wasn't how this was supposed to go. She couldn't let things continue in that manner.

Heading into her own room, she took a look at the clothing in her wardrobe. Costumes, slinky numbers, none of it seemed very 'Sherlock' to her. This was a man who'd only been marginally nervous when she'd been walking around without any clothing at all. In fact, the time she'd seen him the most aroused, at his flat in Baker Street, was when she'd just been herself. Hair down, wearing his robe, very little makeup on. Making a quick decision, Irene took off her clothing, washed her face in her bathroom, let down her hair, and threw on the silk robe that hung on a peg on the wall. As a rule she never wore her own clothing while working. But, she reasoned, Sherlock Holmes was a special case. On her way into the other bedroom, she grabbed his belt from off the ground near the couch. Just in case.

As she strode confidently into the guest room where she worked, Irene was annoyed to find Sherlock standing imperiously by the dresser. "On the bed," she instructed, and he started to turn that direction, looking completely unfazed, which frankly pissed her off. She snatched his left arm and stopped him. He looked down at her with one raised eyebrow. "Take off your trousers."

Sherlock opened his mouth slightly then swallowed a little nervously, which relieved Irene immensely. She knew there had to be _some_ way to humiliate this man. "Why?" he asked cautiously.

"Because I told you to," Irene said with the smallest of wicked smiles, starting to feel comfortably herself with Sherlock for the first time since perhaps London. Maybe this was a good idea after all.

Seeming to realise his slip up, Sherlock steeled himself, kicked off his shoes, and unzipped his black trousers. He seemed tense but didn't hesitate as he slipped his trousers off and climbed onto the bed, sitting with his back against the headrest, his arms folded in his lap. There was the slightest touch of embarrassment in his manner, and that should have been precisely what she wanted. As a professional, she had the instinct to tell him to remove his blue silk boxers as well. But a different, foreign part of her balked at the notion of taking it that far, for both their sakes, though she really didn't want to dwell on why. Irene turned away from the bed and grabbed four silk ties from one of the drawers.

"Lie down," she said, turning back to Sherlock. He looked uncertain, though more out of confusion than embarrassment, but he did as she said. When she tied his left leg to the bedpost with the silk, he actually relaxed.

"Ahh," he mused, "Easier to tie someone in tightly without the material of the trousers in the way. Less chance of them slipping out." Making the logical connection set him at ease, and irritated her to no end.

"Shut up," Irene ground out as she secured his other leg to the bed.

"Is that part of the professional scolding?" he inquired as she moved up the side of the bed. He sounded for all the world like a chemist asking about a new research paper.

"No, it's me being sick of your incessant questions. You're _supposed_ to be begging, not interrogating," she fumed as she pulled the tie holding his left arm up extra tight. He made no indication that he felt any pain from it, and perhaps on the cocaine he didn't. In general, the drug seemed to be making him very at ease, which wasn't what she wanted at all.

Sherlock gave a long sigh as Irene climbed over him and wrapped the last tie around his forearm, just above the cast. In spite of her professional inclination to inflict pain, she made that one a little looser. "You know, I have no doubt based on the price you commanded in London that you're very good at this. But frankly, Irene, I still don't see the appeal," Sherlock huffed.

She wanted to slap him. But because it was for her _own_ reasons, not his, she just barely restrained herself. Instead, she leaned in over him, her face a few inches from his own as she half whispered, half-sighed, "Don't you have any fantasies, Mr. Holmes?" Honestly, she wasn't sure, and it was insanely frustrating.

"Aren't you supposed to be able to figure that out? Surely not everyone is so easy," Sherlock replied in a low, challenging voice.

Fuming, Irene got to her feet and walked slowly to the end of the bed, grabbing his belt from on top of the wardrobe where she'd left it. Giving him a hooded look, she slapped his leg lightly with the belt said in a low voice, "You've been a bad boy."

Sherlock actually rolled his eyes at that. "Dear God, infantilising? Does anyone actually go for that?"

_You'd be surprised,_ she thought. She hadn't really expected that one to work very well. Perhaps something a little closer to home. She leaned in and tightened the restraints on his legs further. "It may have taken me ten years, but I've finally arrested you. And there's no one watching our little _interrogation_-"

His long-suffering sigh stopped her. "You forget, I've been arrested before. It's hardly a fantasy. More like pointless tedium."

Irene whacked his thigh with the belt, more out of frustration than because she actually thought it might excite him. "Don't you have _any_ imagination?" she growled, crawling up onto the bed and kneeling between his outstretched feet. She couldn't help noting his strong, lean muscles. Developed from months of literally running for his life, no doubt. The feeling of her heart speeding up alarmed her. _This is __**his**__ fantasy, not yours,_ she reminded herself sharply. She was starting to remember one of the reasons she thought this might be a bad idea. But Irene was adamant that she could be professional enough not to let her attraction get in the way. She'd had to do it with a few women over the years, so certainly she could do it with some man.

But he wasn't just 'some man'. Sherlock Holmes was a marvel. It was his mind as much as his body that had drawn her so strongly to him in the first place. It had meant not having to fake attraction to him in order to gather information from him back in London. No, Sherlock was no ordinary man. He didn't have an ordinary man's desires or thought processes. His mind was grounded in reality, not fantasy. She recalled that night in Baker Street again, when he'd looked into her eyes, taken her pulse. Trying to evaluate her desire for him. And she'd seen the same desire in his own eyes. The only thing that she'd seen turn him on was _her._ And not even her body so much as her sharp mind and pointed words. Maybe, _maybe_ she could get him to beg for that. Even as she thought it, she knew it was dangerous, and normally something to avoid. The whole idea of a dominatrix was to indulge in role play, to get the client to completely lose themselves in fantasy. But Sherlock Holmes was a man seemingly devoid of imagination. If she had to play a little closer to reality with him, so be it. It would be a challenge, at any rate.

Slowly, Irene crawled up Sherlock's body, positioning herself above him, but propped up on her arms and the balls of her feet so that the only thing touching him was her robe. "You don't want any of those fantasies, do you?" she asked, but she knew it was rhetorical. It got his attention anyway. His wide, drugged pupils stared back at her, intrigued for the first time in the session. She could hear his heart pounding, but it had been that way from the cocaine already. She'd have to try a little harder to evoke a different heart-pounding response from him. Staring at him from a few inches away, she whispered, "You want what's right in front of you. You want _me._"

Sherlock's mouth dropped open a fraction, as if to object, but Irene reacted first. Sitting up on his chest, with only her silk robe separating their bodies, she slapped him across the face with the belt. His head whipped to the side and he blinked in surprise, but didn't cry out. Again, most likely the cocaine was dulling his senses. Irene leaned in again and growled, "Well what makes you think I'd want a piece of shit like you?"

The room suddenly grew deathly quiet, and Irene instantly knew this was the wrong tactic. Oh, it got a reaction from Sherlock, all right; but not the one she was going for. Normally when she located a man or woman's fantasy, she could see their eyes light up with the secret thrill of it. Then Irene knew she'd hit on the thing that they _wanted_ to beg for, to make believe they felt ashamed of when really it was their deepest desire. But Sherlock's eyes looked completely different. They'd managed to snap out of their drugged haze and for a moment he looked truly, deeply hurt. Irene sat back, and was just about to jump off the bed and change tactics (or admit defeat and give up completely) when Sherlock said, his voice hollow, "Go on."

"Sherlock," Irene said, her tone of command slipping, "I don't think-"

"I said," he hissed, his eyes boring into hers, "_Go on._ You were saying?"

Irene was stuck in a hopeless position. She always did what the client wanted, and Sherlock was her client. Yet at the same time, she knew he wasn't enjoying this. But she _had_ to maintain her professionalism. If this wasn't a professional relationship, what was it? She couldn't handle anything else.

Quietly, Irene repeated, "You're a piece of shit." She swallowed, using every ounce of composure she possessed. Sherlock's eyes were locked onto her intently as he breathed heavily. "Just look at you. You're a pathetic, strung out junkie."

"Hit me," he said quietly. She belted him across the face again, and this time he hissed in pain, his eyes screwing shut a moment before looking back up at her.

"You're arrogant, insufferable," she said in her usual smooth, alluring tone. But Irene was starting to feel as if she were outside her own body. As if she weren't the one saying any of this. She had no idea where it was coming from, but Sherlock wasn't taking his eyes off her, so she continued, "You've had one friend your whole life and no lovers. The people who know you can't stand you." This time, she smacked him without warning, and he gave a cry of pain before biting his lip and looking back at her. _Stop it, you don't want to do this,_ a large part of her thought. But something uncontrollable was driving her now. She felt as though she weren't even speaking her own words anymore.

"And yet you keep coming back here," she said, laughing coldly. "Poor, sad Sherlock Holmes. Still obsessed with a woman who fooled him. You went to all that trouble to save me, and that still wasn't enough. You still come back, _begging_ to be important. _Begging_ to matter to a woman you have to _pay_. I want you to _beg_ me."

"P..please," Sherlock stammered, his throat constricting. "Please Irene. Please, please," he pleaded, and the familiar words made Irene darkly happy, made her feel like she'd succeeded. _Finally_.

Irene's heart was pounding as she drew back the belt once again, intending to crack it down against Sherlock's now bruised face, but the look in his eyes froze her. It wasn't arousal. It wasn't lust. It wasn't any of the things she was supposed to see when she broke someone, got them to open up and dissolve into a fantasy world. No, Sherlock's bloodshot eyes were _actually_ pleading with her. Not to stop talking, but for something else she couldn't place.

Coming out of the unsettling trance she'd been in, Irene really _looked_ at the man beneath her now. She was shocked at what she saw. Sherlock's jaw was clamped shut tightly, and he looked to be fighting against himself with everything he had. His chest was trembling not with arousal, but with the shivering motion of someone trying to hold back a sob. Something she'd never have thought she'd witness from Sherlock. But she recalled too late how emotionally vulnerable cocaine could make someone. As easily as it could give one confidence, it could also unearth whatever demons led a person to shoot up in the first place. And my how Irene had helped it do its work. It was only then that she realised what she'd been doing. She'd been reading him, all right, telling him what he wanted to hear, just like she was supposed to. Except that what he wanted to hear wasn't fake at all. And it certainly wasn't pleasurable. It was the coldest, hardest version of his reality. It wasn't his deepest desire, but his deepest fear.

Instantly, Irene moved off of Sherlock, off the bed, back-pedalling away as the reality of the situation hit her like a bucket of ice water. _Oh God, what have I done?_ she thought.

"Wh-why are you stopping?" Sherlock asked, turning his head to look at her, his eyes glassy and wild, his voice choked with frantic, unshed tears.

"It's not supposed to be like this," Irene said. "It's supposed to be a bit of fun. To get you off. Not to..." she swallowed, unable to voice how pained and miserable Sherlock looked. "I should have stopped a long time ago. It's my fault. I'm sor-"

"No!" he shouted. "Make believe all you like, but don't pretend that you _care,_" he spat viciously. Irene wanted so badly to object, feeling sick at the thought of the things she'd said. She didn't even believe them. _He_ did and she'd been deducing his thoughts, reflecting them back to him, just as she was supposed to... but not like this. Not those kinds of thoughts. Sherlock's face grew crimson as he growled, "It's not your job to care. It's your job to punish me, isn't it?"

"I do that for people's pleasure," Irene replied, shaking her head. He didn't understand. She knew he didn't comprehend the concept of what she did, and she'd let it get completely out of hand. In her quest to rise to a challenge, she'd deliberately ignored the factors of the drugs, his feelings for her, or the history between them. Irene looked at him now, her whole being apologetic. "I don't do it to people who actually think they deserve it."

"Fuck you!" Sherlock shouted, yanking against his bonds. He started thrashing angrily and was bordering on hyperventilating. He was rapidly losing control of himself, and that was so unlike him that it shook Irene to her core. For a moment, she had the urge to flush all of his drugs and beg him to quit. But she knew it would be no use. She couldn't help him quit. He didn't want to quit. She could only try to help his present state.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, _stop it!_" Irene pleaded, placing her hands gently on either side of his face and forcing his unfocused, glassy eyes to look at her. He stopped thrashing and stared at her, all the fight suddenly draining from his body. Quietly, calmly she said, "You're going to hurt yourself. Let me untie you." He shut his eyes and clenched his jaw tightly, taking some deep breaths, then gave a small nod. She could see a few stray tears running down the sides of his face now, but said nothing as she quickly, gently untied all four of his limbs.

Sherlock didn't move, but lay there, limp and looking completed exhausted. His face was red and his hair matted with sweat. He breathed heavily and Irene thought she could almost hear his heart pounding. She realised the combination of cocaine and adrenaline might have only made that worse. But the short-lived high seemed to be wearing off, because Sherlock rasped, "I need another hit."

As much as she didn't want to do it, as much as she knew it was killing him, Irene couldn't bring herself to let the man plead with her again. "All right," she replied numbly. "I'll be right back." She felt she was in a horrible dream as she walked back into the living room and calmly prepared another shot of cocaine with a new syringe.

When she re-entered the bedroom, Sherlock had wiped his face dry with his left hand and had managed to make his breathing even, though still quickened. Irene moved to his right arm this time, spying a vein that looked to be large enough without assistance. "Is this all right?" she asked, swabbing the area with an alcohol wipe then positioning the needle against his arm, which was still stretched up towards the headboard.

"No," he said, his voice ragged and tired. "You have to point it towards the heart."

There was a moment of still silence before Irene pulled his arm down and pointed the needle upwards. She said nothing as she injected him. He didn't convulse so much this time. Instead, as she pulled the needle out, capped it, and set it aside, he let out a long, relieved sigh. He didn't speak for several minutes, and Irene couldn't take her eyes off of him. His breathing had grown shallow and calm this time, as if all his anxieties had been flushed away. "Are you all right?" she asked, finally.

"Much better," Sherlock said, stroking the sheets beside him a little, like a man running his fingers through his lover's hair. "Much, much better."

This, she realised, this was the only thing Sherlock let dominate him. The thing that really tied him up and had him begging for more, debasing him for a momentary rush of pleasure. _This is what he likes, this intimacy. The drugs in his body, shooting towards his heart. _And Irene realised why he'd wanted her to say those things, the things he believed. He was letting her stand in for the drugs. Those were the things the cocaine whispered to him, drawing him back. Convincing him it was the only thing he loved. The only thing that would love him back.

_But it never gives back. It takes and it takes and it takes until-_

Until what?

Irene didn't have an answer for that. She didn't know how this would end, though deep down, she had a sickening fear of the direction it was going. Could she do anything to reverse it? She wanted to. God, she really did. But even if she got up the courage to try, he'd never trust her now. As she closed the door and turned off the light, leaving Sherlock alone in his momentary thralls of ecstasy, Irene could only think about how the demon possessing Sherlock had asked her to help drag him into his own personal hell. And how she had said yes.

* * *

In the morning, Irene found Sherlock still in the guest bed, still only in his boxers, lying on his side. As she approached, she realised he was shivering and awake. "Did you sleep at all?" she asked.

He shook his head.

Irene bit her lip, trying to hold back the flood of dangerous emotions threatening to come out. "Sherlock, what I said last night, I hope you know I didn't-"

"I don't want to talk about it," he replied flatly.

No, of course he didn't. And Irene wasn't sure she did either, except that she had now completely given in to the reality that Sherlock wasn't just a client and that she wanted to say anything she could to make things better. But it wouldn't help. Still, she couldn't stand to see him like this. "You have to go," Irene said instead.

Looking up at her blearily, he asked, "Do you have another client?"

Irene's chest constricted at the way he said that. 'Another client', as if he were just a block of time on her agenda, in the same category as dozens of others. As if this had anything to do with her work. "Yes," she lied, her voice tight. She couldn't tell whether he believed her. Coughing, she said more insistently, "Now get up. Get your things."

Irene turned and walked out of the room without another word, unable to stay a second longer. She just sat in a living room chair and bit her manicured nails sharply. She suddenly needed Sherlock out of the flat as soon as possible. She felt absolutely horrible about tossing him out like this, and knew it would only reinforce the awful things she'd said the night before. But it was most likely a better option than breaking down in front of him.

After what seemed like ages, Sherlock emerged, looking like hell. Irene had already packed his things up in his bag, which he noticed. Silently, slowly, he grabbed the duffle bag and headed for the door, glancing only briefly at Irene. He didn't look angry at all. Instead he seemed drained and defeated, which was infinitely worse. He'd just about reached the door when Irene suddenly gave into her urge to get up and go to him. "Wait," she said, putting a hand on his arm just as he reached the door. Sherlock gave her a resigned look. "I just want you to know, you're welcome to come here any time. That hasn't changed."

Sherlock gave her a look that seemed passive, but was tinged with a brief flash of misery. Then it was gone, and he gave a tired, non-committal nod before walking out the door. Irene had barely closed it before she started sobbing.


	5. 4: A Special Occasion, chapter 1

**Note: **Sorry there was a bit more of a delay in posting this one. I wound up being out of town all weekend. It's ready to go now, though. Thank you all for the awesome reviews, I'll get right to replying to them!

**Warnings: **As usual, there's drug use. But this story features particularly heavy, reckless drug use. And as always, dark angst. This is the sort of story that should be listened to with Eliot Smith playing in the background. "King's Crossing", preferably.

* * *

**4: A Special Occasion  
**(1/2)

There was a certain quality to the way Sherlock always pounded on her door, a cadence and insistency that no one else ever used. By now, Irene had finally figured this out and knew to expect Sherlock in her hallway when she heard that noise six weeks after his last visit. After the uncomfortable encounter they'd had the last time he'd dropped in, Irene was surprised he was back so soon. Perhaps it had been more horrifying to her in the end than it had been to him. She supposed _she_ had been the one realising just how much Sherlock presently hated himself and his life circumstances; it couldn't have been a surprise to him.

Taking a breath to steady herself, she opened the door and started to say calmly, "To what do I owe this surprise?" but trailed off partway through. Even Irene and her high level of professional composure couldn't hide her surprise at how he looked. She'd seen the cocaine make him everything from confidently relaxed to masochistically depressed, but she'd never seen him outright strung out. He'd lost even more weight, his skin was ghostly white, there were dark purple circles under his eyes, his hair was matted, and he ambled slowly into her flat. "What happened to you?" Irene asked, closing the door. It sounded a slightly better alternative to 'You look like shit', but frankly she knew it to be a stupid question.

"Long trip," Sherlock replied, and for a second she was honestly unsure which definition of 'trip' he meant. He settled himself onto her couch, dropping his duffle bag beside him and putting his feet up on her coffee table.

"Please don't do that," Irene said.

It took him a good 20 seconds to register that she'd said something. "What?" he asked, looking at her in confusion. "Oh," he realised, slowly dragging his legs down onto the floor but maintaining his slumped position.

Walking over to stand across from him, Irene asked, "Where are you coming from this time?" It seemed a safe sort of topic. The sort of thing friends who hadn't seen each other in a while asked. It was the thinnest veils of illusion.

"San Diego," Sherlock replied rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. The cast was off and he didn't seem to have any lasting scars from the ordeal.

Ah, maybe that explained a little of his exhaustion. At least, she'd like to believe it was that. "California?" she asked. He nodded. "That is a long trip. What is it, about twenty hours?" she asked, as if inquiring about the weather.

"Nearly twenty four if you include the drive to Los Angeles and," he waved towards his bag, "I had to stop on my way from the airport to pick up some things. Oh, before I forget," he added, sitting up and unzipping his bag. He pulled out his wallet and sifted through it with lean hands. He pulled out a 500 shekel and two 200 shekel notes, then frowned. "I could have sworn I had more left. I converted the rest of this month's allotment," he muttered. Looking up at Irene, he held out the 900 to her. "A lot less than usual but perhaps you'd grant me a discount, given the special occasion," he said the last part glibly.

Irene reluctantly took the money from him. She didn't actually have any clients to cancel this time in order to mind him while he used, but it hardly mattered. The money was more about having the thinnest layer of professionalism to all of this than about an actual need for profit. She only hoped this wasn't all of his money. From what she gathered, Mycroft left him an anonymous sum in some account the first of every month, which was three days from now. "What occasion is that?" Irene asked, leaning against the back of one of her chairs and attempting to keep up the casual chitchat.

But that was stamped out when Sherlock replied tonelessly, "The anniversary of my death."

_Shit_, Irene thought. Sherlock looked up at her, evidently expecting more surprise than she outwardly displayed. She was a professional. Still, had it really been a year? Irene vividly remembered seeing the news of Sherlock's suicide on the BBC news website and scarcely being able to believe it. When Sherlock had arrived on her doorstep less than a week later looking for information on Moriarty's network, she'd been overjoyed. Not that she showed it, and not that he had wanted to discuss it at all.

When Irene said nothing, Sherlock turned and looked out the window towards the beach. The sun was starting to go down in the opposite direction, bathing the sea in a slanted golden light that reflected up into the room. The yellow glow made his pale skin look even more sickly. Sherlock said nothing, and she could only begin to guess at what he might be thinking at a time like this. Clearing her throat to fill the tense silence, Irene said, "I'm sure you could use a shower after that long a journey. You can use the one in the guest room if you'd like."

Sherlock frowned out at the sea, then stood, nodding. "All right," he said.

"I've got some clean clothes in your size as well," she said tentatively.

Now Sherlock looked at her curiously. "Why?"

Irene shrugged. "Sometimes it's good to have spares in various sizes," she lied. Sure, she did have those, but the clothing she had in Sherlock's sizes she'd chosen just for him. He never seemed to carry spares of anything besides boxers, preferring to travel extremely light. She noted that his sneakers, which were much more suited to the kind of dangerous work he was doing than dress shoes, were particularly worn down. He must have done an awful lot of running in them. She tried not to think about why.

"I suppose I could use them," Sherlock said, still sounding leery.

"Just a moment," Irene went into her bedroom (decidedly _not_ where she kept her other extra changes of men's clothing) and grabbed a pair of dark grey slacks and a dark blue shirt. She had to admit, she may have intentionally bought them with some desire to see Sherlock looking marginally his old self. Right now, for instance, he was wearing a dark pair of dusty jeans, of all things. Irene headed back into the living room and handed the clothing to Sherlock, who took them and his bag without comment. "Would you like something to eat when you get out?" she asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "Not hungry," he said groggily, turning and walking into the guest room. Of course he wouldn't be, Irene reasoned. Cocaine suppressed the appetite, and judging by the weight he'd lost even in just the last few weeks, it looked to have nearly supplanted food for Sherlock. Irene felt a pang at that, and tried not to think about that, this anniversary, or anything else as she set about making her own dinner.

Just as Irene finished eating, Sherlock emerged from the guest room with his bag in hand, having evidently left his other clothes in his room. He looked marginally better and somewhat more alert. The clothing she'd bought for him a month ago was a little loose on him now. His hair, though damp, at least wasn't matted down any longer. He still looked like someone who'd been ill for weeks, though. "Feel better?" Irene asked, though she instantly realised it was a fairly stupid question. Besides, if she had to guess, based on his morose manner, he didn't actually _want_ to feel better. Not really.

Sherlock made a noncommittal sound before sitting back down on the couch and unzipping his duffle bag. "I am grateful you're able to give me a discount," Sherlock said as he began pulling out items and setting them on the table. There were half a dozen needles, alcohol swabs, and several vials of mostly clear solution. The vials were marked with what looked to be medical labels. Irene frowned at this curiously. Sherlock continued, "I've had to spend quite a lot on travel expenses is all. It hasn't left much behind."

Irene wanted to believe that's all it was, that he wasn't instead simply putting all his money up his arm. Still, he could be telling the truth. "Yes, I'd imagine tickets from San Diego to Tel Aviv aren't cheap. Where was the stop over, London?"

Sherlock looked up at her sharply, showing the first sign of anything but depressed lethargy all evening. "No, of course not," he replied tersely. "I can't go to Britain. That's much too big a risk." Irene supposed that was true. Personally she'd never dream of setting foot close to the British Isles. Sherlock continued, "I went through Frankfurt."

"I knew a man once from Frankfurt," Irene mused, "Germans are inordinately preoccupied with leather." Sherlock didn't look even vaguely amused, so Irene sat down across from him, switching topics. "So what are the vials for?" she asked, genuinely curious. He'd always mixed up the powder before. The vials looked much more clean and clinical, which was in discord with Sherlock's much more ragged appearance.

"I've started pre-mixing my solution. Much less mess," Sherlock explained. He stuck one of the needles through the top of the vial, drawing out a good quantity of the solution. He capped that one then started to fill another of the syringes as he continued talking. "Also incredibly convenient for travel. Airport security doesn't think twice about someone bringing their insulin on board. And, when the plane's steady enough, it's quite easy to go to the lavatory and dose myself."

There was a twisted logic to this that part of Irene could admire, even if grimly. She did suppose it would be the best way not to get questioned by customs or security. Still, his statement worried her. "You've been using on planes?" she asked cautiously. Somehow, the idea of sticking a needle into one's vein while on a potentially turbulent vehicle seemed less than a good idea. And the idea of him proudly shooting up in public without anyone noticing disturbed her. Not for the public's sake, but for his.

"Well, according to these labels I'm supposed to be vigilant about taking some with every meal," Sherlock replied, smirking as he filled his fourth syringe.

"Jesus, Sherlock," Irene replied, unable to contain her horror at the notion of him using at least three times a day. How could he possibly be so blasé about this? She watched him take the fifth of his six syringes in hand, and felt her stomach churn. She wondered how much actual work he'd been getting done recently and how much time had just been spent shooting up. He'd claimed the whole point of this was to help him concentrate on his work, but clearly it had devolved into something for its own sake. Or, more accurately, a sort of existential painkiller, if their last meeting was anything to go by. "Are you planning to use all of that tonight?"

He glanced up at her, his eyes hard. "As I said, it's a special occasion," he spat vitriolically, his lips curling up in a sneer. "Passing judgment, Irene?"

Irene stared back evenly. If this is how he wanted it to be, she was perfectly capable of playing it that way. "I only want to know whether I should have a direct ambulance company number ready or if the emergency line will be fast enough," she replied stonily.

"I know what I'm doing," Sherlock replied shortly, but he looked a little thrown by her cold statement. Still, he pulled himself together enough to fill his final syringe, cap it, and lay it beside the others.

"So it seems," Irene remarked. In truth, her chest was constricting in panic as she looked at the neat row of six syringes loaded with cocaine. But he'd never have to know that. It wasn't part of their perfect arrangement, she reasoned bitterly. She was growing very, very tired of said arrangement. Frankly, it was tearing her apart to have to watch Sherlock do this to himself. She knew how racked with guilt and loneliness the man truly was, and knew none of this would ever help.

A year... she could hardly believe it. A year since he'd jumped off that roof whilst his best friend watched. The thought of John suddenly made Irene feel guilty herself, which caught her off guard. In all the time she'd been minding Sherlock to see that he didn't OD, she'd never really thought about the people left behind in London thinking Sherlock was already dead. Not knowing he was alive and going through hell. Irene had observed just how protective Dr. Watson could be of his friend. He'd been furious at her for flirting with Sherlock via text messages, for leading him on. What would he think of her involvement with Sherlock now?

She felt the need to change the subject. "So where are you headed after this? You just came from San Diego so I'm guessing... India? Dubai?" By now she was well aware that Sherlock often went a good deal out of his way specifically to come see her. She tried not to read too much into it, or dwell on how it made her feel. Most likely he was taking a slight detour on his way to somewhere in the middle east, otherwise he would have gone the other way round the globe.

To her surprise, Sherlock hesitated, and looked out the window at the dwindling light as he replied almost in a mumble. "Caracas."

Irene felt her heart constrict again, but this time for a different reason. "_Venezuela?_" she asked breathlessly. He'd gone a few hundred miles out of his way before, but this was something else entirely. Sherlock had flown halfway around the world just to see her before flying halfway back again. No wonder he'd run out of money. Irene's expression softened as she looked at him. He turned his head away from the window, and for few seconds, their eyes locked. His eyes, which had looked tired and almost dead since he came in, now gave her all the response she needed to her silent questions. Yes, he knew how crazy it was to spend the time and money to fly all that way. Yes, he desperately wanted her to care about him. No, he didn't expect that she actually would. But he couldn't be alone today. With that, Sherlock looked down again at the implements on the table.

But those few seconds were enough to open the floodgates of memories for Irene. In particular, she sharply recalled their last encounter and the horrible things she'd said to him in the pursuit of a good 'scene'. She'd said what he thought. That he was worthless. That she only played along and spent time with him because he was paying her to. God, how much Irene wished she could take all of it back, because she'd known even then that none of it was true. She knew it even more now. And yet she still didn't say anything. She _couldn't_. Not saying it was the only thing maintaining a distance between them, a distance she felt Sherlock would be frankly terrified to cross if actually given the option anyway. Irene wasn't even sure if _she_ could.

Blinking rapidly, and with his mouth sounding dry, Sherlock finally replied, "I... have someone to find there in Caracas in about a week. I had to be in California before that. And this date fell between them. What other option did I have?" he reasoned shakily as he rolled up his left sleeve then took a wadded up shirt from his duffle bag and stuffed it in his left armpit. It took Irene a moment to realise that he was using this to constrict the blood flow and plump up his veins. Much easier than a belt, she guessed. It made her feel sick that all of this occurred to her so readily. What on earth had these past six months of minding Sherlock as he shot up done to her? She hadn't really given much consideration to its affect on her own state of mind.

Fortunately, Sherlock spoke again, though it seemed at a great cost to himself as he stammered, "It's not... Believe me, I would have preferred not to come here. After last time-" he stopped himself by biting his lower lip hard. His right hand clenched around a syringe in a fist so tight Irene thought for a second he might break the plastic. Then he swallowed, still looking down at the table, and said, "It's only that I knew I'd need someone to sit with me today in particular. And I don't know anyone else."

She realised he didn't just mean any other friends or colleagues. He literally didn't know _anyone_ anymore. In a way, she had become his world. Irene felt her brow draw together in empathy. While she was glad that at least Sherlock did actually care marginally about his own safety, the pain and shame of just how alone he was was a difficult thing for her not to care about. Against her better judgment, she asked, "Do you want to talk?"

This finally got Sherlock to look up at her, though in genuine confusion. "Talk? About what?" he asked.

"Oh, I can't imagine," Irene said, the tiniest amount of humour in her voice because she knew Sherlock Holmes of all people could appreciate that. "Perhaps having been officially dead for a year? I'm in the unique position of actually having some experience in this area," she reminded him.

For a second, Sherlock looked like he understood what she was offering him. That she was showing him he wasn't alone in this. That she was suggesting they actually just _talk_ about those hidden fears and anxieties that both of them were so deft at sublimating. For a brief moment, Irene actually thought he might acquiesce. And for a brief moment, she didn't find that terrifying.

Then Sherlock looked away, back down at his left arm. He swallowed hard, dropped the t-shirt from under his arm to restore blood flow, then took the syringe in his right hand and slid it into a vein in his wrist. "No," he said, drawing back a drop of blood then depressing the plunger slowly. "I don't want to talk." He set the needle aside safely, then leaned over and let himself fall onto his side, his breathing quickening, his eyes closed. And that was that. He was gone.

Irene watched him for a moment, and noticed how tense the lines of his face still seemed. How his fingers began tapping rapidly on his chest. This was supposed to relax him. But it didn't seem to be having as strong an effect as she'd seen before. If even the cocaine could no longer ease his racing, treacherously cynical mind, what could anymore?

Getting up, Irene went to the kitchen to make herself some tea. She had a feeling this would be a very long night.

* * *

An hour later as Irene sat silently watching BBC World News, Sherlock rolled over and reached for his third syringe. He hadn't said anything since he'd shot up the first time. He'd merely stared at the ceiling, his eyes moving back and forth as if in rapid, unvoiced thought. His left foot had begun to tap out a quick rhythm against the arm of the couch. He'd been muttering half-formed sentences under his breath, but they clearly weren't directed at her. The hyper brain function she was used to. But she still couldn't call the look on his face one of contentment. Sure, he'd given a soft moan of pleasure as the second injection went in, but that had worn off so quickly that he was going back for another only twenty minutes later. He had already started to sit up when Irene said firmly, "Sherlock."

He looked at her with wide, red eyes and raised an impatient eyebrow in question, even as he lifted his left arm to look for a vein that wasn't already irritated and track marked. But he still didn't say anything. The sight was enough to make Irene sure of her conviction as she said, "I need you to go to the guest bedroom."

Sherlock finally looked at her, his faced etched with confusion as he asked, "Why?"

Irene drew a deep breath, composing herself before saying, "If you want to put all of that shit into your body, that's your decision. And I'll keep an eye on you because I don't want you to kill yourself. But that doesn't mean I want to actually see you like this."

Sherlock scoffed. "Like what? I've been sitting here, thinking to myself, not even saying anything. Is that bothering you so much?" he asked, irritated.

"No, it's not that," she replied.

"What, then? Suddenly squeamish? Irene Adler with a weak stomach?" he quipped in sardonic disbelief. His brain seemed to be in high throttle searching for an answer, yet Irene marvelled at his inability to see what was right in front of him.

Choosing her words carefully, Irene said, "I just don't want to see someone as brilliant as you risk his mind out of masochism."

Sherlock gave her an incredulous look. "Masochism? Don't you think you might be projecting your usual work onto this, Irene?" he asked venomously. "This is a pleasurable experience. A way to open my mind, not destroy it. You have no idea what it's like. You can't even begin to imagine." He closed his eyes a moment as if relishing the sensation. Opening them, he shook his head, "It allows me to think, and on a day like today, there's quite a lot for me to think about."

Yes, there was. And that was precisely the problem. Remaining stoic, Irene replied, "You're free to expand your mind in your room."

Sherlock gave her a hard stare. "Out of sight, out of mind then, is it?" he asked.

Irene knew that was as far from the truth as possible. Sherlock had been on her mind more and more frequently, even when he was God knew where and she had no idea when she'd see him again. Now that he was actually here, only feet away, he might as well have been the other side of the universe. He wasn't really there with her. Not the Sherlock Holmes that lived in her mind. But Irene didn't say that. What she said instead was, "Something like that."

"Fine. Your rules." He quietly swept up the remaining four syringes in his right hand, grabbed the duffle bag from off the floor with his left, and stalked silently into the guest bedroom.

* * *

But Irene could still feel his presence for the following hour and a half, as if he were sitting right beside her. She couldn't smell the salty air of the Mediterranean wafting in through the open window, only the cologne he wore, or used to wear before he'd uncharacteristically given up on his own appearance. She couldn't see the stars coming out in the night sky, only his eyes when he has looked at her in admiration. She couldn't hear the reporters on the television, only his voice begging her 'please', so abjectly helpless he hadn't even really known what he was asking for. Just something from her. Anything. All she could think of was Sherlock Holmes, and how the man in the next room was an imposter.

Finally, Irene exerted all her willpower to pull herself from her chair. She had been hearing him pacing around in the guest room, and thus had known he hadn't collapsed or anything. It was a welcome way to keep tabs on him without having to actually watch him going about his awful business. But the pacing had ceased now. Whatever else she thought, she was responsible for his safety. Not just financially, because she would have done it without any money. But because she personally couldn't bear for something to happen to him.

When she opened the door to the guest bedroom, she saw a tiny flicker of fire at the edge of the bed. It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the low light, emanating only from the open bathroom and cutting a hard slash across the room. Sherlock was just outside of it, sitting on the edge of the bed with a spoon in one hand and a lighter in the other, warming it.

That puzzled Irene. He'd prepared six vials of the stuff already. Had he really gone through all of that in two and a half hours? She was no doctor, but that seemed plainly dangerous. And he'd never used a lighter before, either. "What are you doing?" she asked, and though she said it softly he still jumped. His eyes were wide and as she approached she could see they were extremely dilated. His hands were shaking, the spoon trembling.

Sherlock looked up at her. Then, to her surprise, he glanced down and raked his eyes up the length of her body, his gaze lingering at her hips, her breasts, and finally on her lips. There was no doubt about it: Sherlock was checking her out. Much more than he had the time she'd stood in front of him completely naked. It surprised Irene more than unsettling her. To tell the truth, it gave her a bit of a thrill, in spite of how jittery and pale he looked. He wasn't exactly the Sherlock of her fantasies. But still, he retained his trademarked intensity. Irene coughed and prompted, "Sherlock?"

He blinked, and his eyes flicked up to hers again. He shook his head as if trying to clear it, and it occurred to Irene that he might be hallucinating. Evidently auditory hallucinations were the most common with heavy cocaine use, and this certainly qualified. She wondered what or whom had been whispering to him as he paced alone in the dark. "I ran out of the filled syringes," he said finally, his speech lacking its usual commanding, elegant clipped tone. In fact it was a bit slurred.

"Well, I can see that," Irene said. "Doesn't that seem like a good time to lie down? Perhaps even go to sleep?"

Sherlock's desirous expression quickly turned sour. "Do you really believe I'll be able to go to sleep any time soon?" he asked frankly. No, she supposed he had a point. Even without the cocaine, she doubted he'd have been able to calm his mind tonight. The flood of memories, regrets, and fears had to be much too strong for that. Taking her silence as a response, Sherlock looked back down at his spoon. Irene followed his eyes, then froze.

The solution in the spoon wasn't the usual clear or slightly cloudy white she'd grown accustomed to. Instead, it was the colour of maple syrup. Feeling her heart race with a sudden surge of urgency, Irene shot a look at the bedside table. A tin foil wrapper lay open, a little mound of familiar white powder on top of it. But next to it was another bit of foil on which lay several opened pill casings and a small amount of dusty brown powder.

Not since she knelt on the floor of a warehouse in Karachi had Irene been hit with such a surge of panicked adrenaline. Sherlock started drawing some of the brown liquid up into his syringe, but Irene's hand shot out to grab his wrist of its own will, effectively stopping him halfway. His gaze flew back to her face, his eyes now burning in annoyance. Staring in disbelief and abject horror, Irene whispered, "Is that heroin?"

"Partly," Sherlock replied. "Bit of both."

Irene felt dizzy and sick with dread. "A speedball?" she breathed, and now her hand on his wrist was trembling more than he was. "Sherlock," she started, putting her free hand on his shoulder. He looked at it in drugged fascination, then at the other hand holding his wrist. "Look at me," she said, her voice insistent and dead serious. Sherlock glanced back up at her. "You can't do this."

"I tried heroin once before," Sherlock reasoned. "Made me sluggish. But I've heard that in combination with cocaine-"

"Stop," Irene cut him off. Her voice was firm but full of genuine, strident concern as she continued. "You've taken six hits of cocaine in a few hours. You've used at least a couple times in the day you were traveling here." She slowly let go of his wrist and shoulder and crouched down onto one knee so she could look at him face to face. As she laid a light hand on one of his knees, Sherlock inhaled sharply, looking at her hungrily. But for once it wasn't Irene's intention to manipulate or seduce someone. Clearly the physical contact was distracting him, so she removed her hand. As calmly as she could, Irene continued, "You're paying me to be your minder, yes?" When he didn't reply, she said, "Sherlock, answer me."

"Yes," he said. Normally he would have been incredibly annoyed at her putting her foot down. But he seemed too fixated on the movement of her lips to put up much of a fight.

"_Sherlock,_ look at me," Irene said, raising her voice sharply. That got his attention, and while she had it she said, "As your minder I'm telling you, you can't take that hit. I won't allow it. It's what I'm supposed to be here for, yes? Remember?" he blinked hard a few times, as if trying to drag himself down from his high, then nodded. As stone cold sober as she'd ever been in her life, Irene said, "Sherlock, if you take that hit right now, you're going to die."

They were her own words, her own thoughts, but having actually verbalized them, Irene felt a renewed constricting pang in her chest. She concentrated on breathing deeply. She had to be strong, to remain clear-headed. She was the only one who could right now. Sherlock thought her statement over for several moments. Then, to her dismay, he began to laugh. Yes, it was acidic laughter, but nonetheless, it was not the response she'd have predicted. After a few moments, he decided to fill her in on the joke. "I was just thinking," Sherlock mused in his familiar, thoughtful tone all of a sudden. "What a brilliantly ironic death date that would be. Though I don't suppose I'd actually have a proper death certificate. Just something under an alias. I'd be tossed in the ground somewhere without ceremony. Well, if it was good enough for Mozart..."

"This isn't funny," Irene said, not as a chastisement, but as a plea. She knew he couldn't think clearly at the moment, and the last time he'd gotten out of control she'd had to sedate him. She would do it again if she had to, but more than the immediate concern, she was troubled by the larger picture. Because he'd bought the heroin when he was much more clear-headed. There was no way he didn't know the dangers. It almost made her believe he had a death wish. "Haven't you recalled, as you've been in here presumably contemplating the significance of this date, why you faked your death in the first place? Why you've been working so hard to bring down Moriarty's network? To save your friends, yes? You're not much use to them if you actually die."

All humour quickly faded from Sherlock's face, replaced by a dark stare. "On the contrary, thinking about it has made me realise... they'd actually be _safer_ if I were dead."

"How can you say that?" Irene replied, her tone desperate. "If you were gone, who would find the rest of the network and neutralise them? Keep them from being a sword of Damocles hanging over John's head? Over Mrs. Hudson's or Lestrade's?"

"That's just it," Sherlock said with a shake of his head. "As long as no one knows I'm actually alive, the network has no reason to go after any of them. The only reason I've needed to track them down is to ensure my own future, my own ability to return and reclaim my life. But if I slip up just once, if anyone from the network escapes alive or without being put away in some country's shadowy solitary confinement, then these assassins _will_ go after my friends. Just as Moriarty ordered them to." Sherlock closed his eyes, a momentary look of sobered pain and guilt flashing over features. Then he looked at her again. "I'm not protecting them, Irene. I'm exposing them to mortal danger in pursuit of my own selfish dream of going back to how things were _before_. When everyone there believes I died in disgrace, a fraud. And thanks to Mycroft, there've been enough actual details of my life spilled to ruin me anyway." Sherlock growled, digging the heel of his palm into his eye. His voice was raw and strained. "Why can't I forget? All I wanted was to take enough to forget for just a few minutes, to think about something else entirely."

Cautiously, Irene eased the spoon and needle out of his hands. He let her, and shivered at her touch. She set the implements down on the nightstand. When she looked back at him, he was gazing at her with a renewed hungry expression on his face. She had no idea if it was for the cocaine or for her. "How about a deal," he said slowly. "I'll let you flush all of the heroin down the loo if you just stay with me for one more cocaine hit." Irene was about to make an objection, but Sherlock anticipated it and cut her off. "I know my limits. And you know the precautionary drugs, they're still in my bag." His voice was growing shaky and desperate, and he looked down. "Please, Irene. This isn't a death wish. It's just... a wish for a different life. Even if only for a few hours, or even minutes. Please."

It was the second please that got her. As much as she hated the idea of him taking any more of anything, if she could prevent him from taking any heroin, and most likely killing himself , it would be worth it. "All right," Irene nodded. She got up and grabbed the little tin foil of heroin before she could lose her nerve. Not hesitating a second, she turned and went into the bathroom, where she promptly tossed the drug, foil, and capsules all into the toilet. The environment was the last thing on her mind as she flushed the God-forsaken poison away. She emptied the syringe into the sink and capped it, setting it aside for safe disposal later. She then immediately began scrubbing her hands with soap and hot water, removing any possible residue left. As she was wiping her hands dry on a towel, Sherlock entered, a newly filled clear syringe in hand.


	6. 4: A Special Occasion, chapter 2

**Notes: **Can I just say that, admittedly, I live for comments and I've been chuffed at the ones you guys have been leaving? Thank you so much! They always make my day.

**Warnings: **This chapter is M for more than just drug use. The adult content is just that, dramatic and serious content aimed at adults such as you lovely people. I doubt you'd have made it this far in the story if such things were liable to offend you. Still, just giving fair warning. (I'm only being vague because I hate spoilers.)

* * *

**4: A Special Occasion  
**(2/2)

Under the lights in the bathroom, Irene could see the beads of sweat on his forehead, the pallor of his skin, the tremor in his chest as he breathed unevenly. She could also see the lights reflecting in his darkened eyes, which were turned squarely on her. There again was that desirous look that sent a chill down her spine. She wasn't sure if he realised how openly he was staring at her of if he simply didn't care if she noticed. In spite of herself, Irene swallowed hard. Just one hit. He wanted one more hit. But was that _all_ he wanted? Irene was suddenly aware of how small the room was, how there was no way to put more than a few feet of distance between them.

Sherlock finally looked away from her, turning towards the mirror instead. For a still moment, he seemed to take in his miserable appearance. Then he tilted his head back, held his breath, and slapped the side of his neck with three fingers of his left hand. Irene watched his reflection in the mirror, as if in slow motion, as he lifted the syringe up, pointed it downward, then slid the needle into the jugular vein. Sherlock's eyes found hers in the mirror for a heart-pounding moment before he depressed the plunger. He was exhaling in a shuddering moan before he'd even finished pushing the solution in. As soon as it was all in, he pulled the needle out and dropped it in the sink barely in time before his legs gave out.

Irene reached out for his arm, but his nearly dead weight would have been much too great for her to support, skinny though he'd become. She succeeded in slowing his descent enough for him to grab hold of the edge of the counter and sink to the floor. It was much better than having him hit his chin or head. Now Sherlock was crouched on the balls of his feet, his head hanging down, both arms extended up to grip the edge of the counter tightly. His breathing was loud, ragged, and sprinkled with moans and utterances that weren't quite words. His whole body trembled. Irene saw a trickle of sweat run down the back of his neck. She might have been alarmed at Sherlock's current state if she hadn't been so practiced at spotting ecstasy in its various forms.

Looking away and swallowing hard, Irene made a vain attempt to ignore Sherlock for a moment as she looked around for the cap to the needle he'd dropped in the sink. When she spotted it on the edge of the counter and picked it up, she was surprised to see her own hands trembling slightly. But this was from a drug produced inside her own body. Irene closed her eyes, trying to calm herself. Instead, she wound up picturing Sherlock making those same incoherent noises of ecstasy for very different reasons. _Stop it, stop it, _she chastised herself. She had to get a grip, bring her own desires under control and just wait out this one last hit before he collapsed back into misery, which she felt would be much safer to deal with. All she had to do was-

The long, clammy fingers that had wrapped themselves around her wrist may as well have been iron-hot instead. Irene hissed in surprise, her eyes flying open in time to see Sherlock scramble to his feet, propelled by the energy of the drug. He didn't let go of her left wrist, holding it tightly in his own left hand. Irene could feel his eyes on her, and thought to keep facing forward. But the damned mirror betrayed her, showing her the positively feral look on his face as he inched towards her. This was not the miserable, longing, or embarrassed looks of admiration she'd often glimpsed from Sherlock when he thought she wasn't looking. No. The look in his eyes and the curl of his lips was openly, darkly lustful. She recalled how he'd been staring at her back in the bedroom, looking but not touching. Evidently this hit had emboldened him tremendously. "Your pulse seems to be elevated," he whispered, dropping her wrist and moving his left hand to her hip.

They were both shivering as Sherlock slowly drew up behind her, snaking his free right hand around to rest on her stomach, bunching the fabric of her shirt up into his fist. "Do you know what I've been thinking about?" Sherlock asked against her neck, his dark eyes finding hers in the mirror.

Irene blamed her own body, her own repeatedly repressed attraction to him, for how dry her mouth had become. _You deal almost exclusively with sex and desire. Have some dignity! _part of her chided. _She_ didn't have the excuse of having taken seven hits of cocaine. "Contemplating how much you wanted to get back to London? Back to your old life?" she somehow managed to ask in a voice that was only a little shaky.

"I was thinking about that, yes. And it was making me very unhappy. As I told you, I wanted a way to forget all that," he trailed off, and she saw him inhale the scent of her hair. Sherlock leaned in, his lips brushing her ear and sending a shiver through her. All the while he held her eyes in the mirror. Finally, in a baritone more husky than his usual voice, his words slurring inelegantly with intoxication, Sherlock said, "And when you came in I couldn't help but think about how badly I want to fuck you."

Irene shuddered bodily at hearing the blunt, coarse words fall from his normally posh and restrained mouth. Sherlock watched her response in the mirror, his eyes red and glazed from the drugs but wide in an inquiring fascination that was all his own. He had to have felt her tremble, seen the way her lips parted, how her breath hitched. Unable to hold his gaze anymore, Irene closed her eyes, feeling a warm flush spread across her cheeks as he stepped forward to hold himself tightly against her. The feel of his body against hers was magnificent, as if they fit that way. Still a voice in her mind cautioned, _You don't want to do this. This is wrong. _Even as the endorphins pumped through her system, telling her this was absolutely the right thing to do, Irene's sharp mind sifted through the realities. Cocaine was known for making people very horny and Sherlock had injected enough to become downright debauched. As lovely as that sounded, the last thing she wanted was to truly take advantage of him. Especially when he'd never done this before.

"You don't even know what that means. Not really," she said, her objection coming out as more of a taunt in spite of herself. Him rubbing his whole body slowly against her wasn't helping. He had, after all, always desired her, Irene reasoned. Not just when he was on cocaine. But _she _had been the one to keep holding him at arm's length, she realised. Perhaps the cocaine only gave him the extra incentive he needed to push past that barrier. _Liquid courage_, she thought darkly. That gave her a moment's pause. He wasn't in his right mind. She'd declined to sleep with him before when he was high. But so much had changed between them since then. He'd repeatedly demonstrated his desire, almost need for her. He had flown halfway around the world to see her this time for God's sake. Did that really seem like someone who _didn't_ actually want to shag her? Besides, she'd seen how miserable he was, how he'd nearly killed himself with the drugs. Wasn't this a better option than that? He'd been miserable back in the bedroom. He wasn't miserable now. His tumultuous thoughts seemed to have been pushed aside entirely by his focus on her. So wasn't this precisely what he needed today? He'd begged her for a chance to forget himself. _Oh I could make him forget his own name if I liked, _Irene thought, her own sublimated desires bubbling to the surface.

Opening her eyes finally, Irene flashed him a challenging look. "How would you even know where to begin?"

"Mmm, I'm a quick study," Sherlock growled as he ducked his head to suck at her neck. Suddenly, he let go of her shirt and instead snaked his hand up under it. The feeling of skin on skin made them both inhale sharply. But he didn't hesitate long before sliding his hand up further, stopping only momentarily at her underwire before ducking under the fabric of her bra to cup her breast roughly. At the same time, his left palm slid around from her hip to rest against the front of her jeans. Irene's heart sped up even further, and she let out a sharp "_oh"_. Sherlock chuckled, a low rumble she could feel go from his chest into her back. It sent a shiver down her spine, her desire and imagination going wild. In truth, she'd wanted this for quite a while. In spite of everything - the drugs, his self-hatred, the growing nebulous tension between them - Irene kept desiring him more and more every time she saw him. She didn't even care that he was now skinny, pale, and sweaty. She'd have him any and every way she liked...

Irene felt her mental resistance and intelligent objections snap. Suddenly, she clawed frantically at his hands, grabbing hold of his wrists, twisting around and using the leverage she had on his arms to push him back against the wall. Sherlock stared at her in open-mouthed astonishment that quickly turned to worry. Of course he thought she was stopping. But Irene took a few deep breaths and looked him in the eye seriously. "Are you sure?" she asked. She knew in his drug and hormone addled brain, he wasn't in much of a state to make a well reasoned out decision. But she at least needed to hear him say it.

Swallowing, he replied in a raspy voice, "Oh yes."

A grin slowly spread up Irene's lips and her dark eyes narrowed dangerously. "Well then, Mr. Holmes, you've come to the right place to study up." Without warning, she grabbed him by the front of his shirt and practically dragged him into the bedroom. Pushing Sherlock against the bed to throw him off balance, she gave him a hard shove that sent him sprawling out onto his back. As he looked up at her lustfully and she felt the same desire spark in her brain, Irene knew once and for all that any pretence of professionalism between them was gone forever.

Irene climbed up onto the bed, straddling Sherlock with her strong legs. But he didn't seem content to lie back and take it. His heart audibly beating with the surge of energy both from his cocaine and his hormones, Sherlock pushed himself upright. Now they were face to face, both breathing heavily, chests rising and falling in time.

Suddenly all the barely pent up energy crackling between them exploded. Lips and teeth found one another's necks for a moment whilst hands simultaneously reached beneath shirts to desperately claw at backs. As Sherlock pulled her tank top off over her head whilst she sent buttons flying in an effort to remove his shirt, Irene got the feeling this wasn't going to last very long. Not if this frantic pace kept up. But she didn't care enough to slow down. They'd just have to make the most of what intense moments they did have. She leaned forward and nibbled on one of his ears. "Making any deductions, Sherlock?" she whispered, exhaling hot breath against his neck. She grinned in satisfaction as he shuddered bodily against her.

"Oh, shut up," Sherlock growled in annoyance, unhooking her bra and tossing it aside. To her surprise, he didn't hesitate even a fraction of a second before ducking his head and swirling his tongue around one of her nipples. Irene bit her lip to keep from giving him the satisfaction of hearing her gasp. She was growing increasingly aware of her own arousal, and the dual sight and sensation of Sherlock grazing the sensitive flesh with his teeth as he roughly rubbed her other breast with his hand was only making it worse.

Not content to let him get the upper hand, Irene reached down between them with both hands and rapidly removed his belt. When she moved on to unzip his jeans, Sherlock jerked his head back and stared at her a moment. Following her lead, he undid the zipper on her jeans. A few frantic moments of disrobing ensued, winding up with Irene completely nude and Sherlock in his boxers. He'd seen her naked before, of course, and had contained his reaction then to some stammering. But _this_ scenario was a bit different, and as Irene pressed her bare chest against his, Sherlock let out a long groan that made her positively giddy. He wrapped his hands around her hips like a man holding on for dear life. "Lie back," Irene commanded, pulling away and raking her nails down his sweat-glistened chest. Under her hands, his heart pounded furiously.

Sherlock's eyebrows twitched up in anticipation, then he eagerly did as he was told, lying back on the bed. "No clever comments this time?" Irene asked, amused. Then she rolled her hips against him, tortuously slow.

"Oh for fuck's sake, Irene," Sherlock whimpered, practically writhing beneath her, fingers tightening on her hips, legs squirming against the bed covers. He was evidently too overcome with arousal, too maddened by the flood of drugs in his system to even bother hiding his desperation.

"That's the idea, yes," Irene said with a leer. She scooted herself down to his feet, then leaned over him. Sherlock was breathing open-mouthed as he watched her hook her right thumb under the waistband of his boxers. Then, with a devilish grin, she snagged the left side of the fabric in her teeth. Relishing his trembling beneath her, Irene slowly slid Sherlock's boxers all the way down his legs and to his feet. He helped slip his feet out of them. Irene tossed them to the side of the bed and started to crawl back up towards his face.

She was halfway there when she stopped, looking down with a slight frown. To her great surprise, Sherlock was barely hard. It may have been quite a while since Irene had actually had sex with a man, but in her line of work she saw them in all stages of sexual excitement. Everything else about Sherlock's physical and verbal cues towards her belied intense arousal. But evidently that was happening everywhere but the one place it really mattered. Following her gaze, Sherlock seemed to just then notice the problem, and he blinked in confusion. _God, he must be really far gone not to have noticed that, _Irene realised. Feeling mentally sobered but still physically thrumming with her own arousal, Irene looked up at Sherlock and asked delicately, "Do you need... help?"

Sherlock was still breathing heavily, sweating, and unfocused. Between breaths, he shook his head slightly and said, "I don't know."

Irene bit the inside of her cheek and inhaled deeply through her nose, trying very hard to tame her frustration. What she really wanted to do was rip something to shreds. She could only imagine how Sherlock must feel. Well she wasn't going to give up that easily. Irene rolled off to his side and scooted back up the bed until she was propped up on her left elbow, looking down into his eyes. They still radiated unquenched desire. She gave him a dark, hungry look as she leaned over and pressed her chest against his, then reached down and took him in her hand. He gasped at the contact, and that seemed like a good sign. But even as she stroked him with a firm, steady pace, nothing happened. Sherlock swallowed and closed his eyes, his brow furrowing in concentration. Irene kissed the sensitive flesh by his ear and asked breathily, "You with me?"

She could feel his jaw clench alongside her face. After a few second, he responded tightly, his voice now stripped of all its previous desire, "Apparently not." It was as if they'd just been plunged into the North Atlantic. Irene stopped, slowly pushing herself back up on her left arm and moving her right hand up to his chest. As Sherlock opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling, Irene noted how quickly he'd gone from flushed with arousal to flushed with embarrassment. Not even the cocaine's strong dizzying effects could assuage him, and Irene noted with a sickening lurch of her stomach that Sherlock was rapidly beginning to look even more miserable than he had before she'd flushed the heroin. He swallowed hard and wiped a shaking hand across his sweaty forehead. _You knew this was a terrible idea,_ the sensible part of her chided sharply.

There had to be _some _way to salvage this. Biting her lip, Irene tried to think of the most delicate way to phrase her next question. Frankly it seemed like none of her damn business. Or it wouldn't have been 15 minutes ago, but how that had changed. In truth, her blood was still hot with desire, but she wanted this now more for his sake than her own. "Sherlock," she started slowly, uncharacteristically uncomfortable with a sexual topic for once. He looked at her anxiously, and she wasn't quite sure she wanted to ask this, but it seemed necessary. "Have you ever had an erect-"

"_What?_" Sherlock interjected, sitting up sharply onto his elbows, his eyes burning in indignation. His cheeks reddened further and he spat shortly, "Of course I have. I'm a virgin, not a child."

"All right, settle down," Irene said in a conciliatory tone. "I'm only trying to locate the source of the issue." She was a little relieved by his answer, to tell the truth. At least it wasn't something permanent. But that left only one possibility, frankly. Irene cleared her throat and said carefully, "It's the cocaine, then."

"What? Why?" Sherlock's brow furrowed as he tried to puzzle through that statement. In his frazzled and drugged state, it took him longer than it normally would have. Then Irene saw the realisation hit him. His face fell and his eyes closed briefly as he said, "Of course, vasoconstrictors. Reducing blood flow in peripheral vessels whilst also channeling more blood towards the heart." Sherlock groaned in frustration as the cruel catch-22 of the drug dawned on him, as it had already dawned on Irene. The cocaine had given him the drive to be open about his sexual desires, but made it impossible to actually act on them. Sherlock fell back onto the pillow, fixing his eyes on the ceiling.

Irene let out a long sigh and laid down on her back beside Sherlock, not touching him, just staring at the ceiling, knees bent and hands clenched together across her stomach. "It happens to a lot of people," she said. "I'm sure you wouldn't have this problem usually."

Sherlock scoffed. "_Usually,_" he spat in self deprecation, and she realised she probably shouldn't have phrased it like that. Of course, there was no 'usual' for him in this scenario. "Oh, God," he groaned, running both shaking hands over his face, seeming mortified and miserable as the realisation of what had just happened seemed to finally hit his drugged mind.

Irene sighed then took several deep breaths, trying to curb her own sexual frustration. She felt truly awful for being the supposedly responsible party and having let things get so out of hand. It was only that they wanted one another so badly. Perhaps even needed one another. But she felt sick with the realisation of just how misguided this attempt to 'distract' Sherlock had been. She couldn't have known it would go like this, but God, how could she have been so naive as to think that they could just have a nice shag when he was in this state?

They laid like that for a few minutes, their heavy breathing slowly subsiding. Then, to Irene's surprise, Sherlock sat up and turned to look down at her. She glanced up at him, and he licked his lips a little nervously. His brow was furrowed in serious contemplation. For a moment, she thought he might kiss her, and it occurred to her that he hadn't yet. Then without a word, he slid down to sit below her knees, then eased them apart with his hands. Trembling, Irene watched as Sherlock put his hands on her sides, then leaned in to place a hungry kiss on her stomach. Irene's breath hitched and her muscles tensed, her flesh breaking out all over in goose bumps. Taking this as encouragement, Sherlock placed another kiss lower, and another lower...

"Stop," Irene rasped, her brain getting the better of every desire in her body just before he passed the point of no return.

Sherlock tilted his head up to look at her, a worried expression on his face. "Am I doing something wrong?" he asked.

_God, no_, Irene thought, groaning internally. She couldn't give him any indication just how badly she'd love him to continue, though. She wasn't about to make the same mistake again. She'd been soberly reminded that Sherlock wasn't in his right mind. He might not really know what he was doing, and she never should have let things get this far in the first place. Besides, no matter how aroused she was, it hardly seemed fair to ask him to get her off while he remained sexually frustrated himself. Call it a gesture of solidarity. But more than that, Sherlock had spent enough time already believing his feelings for her were one-sided. The last thing she wanted was to make him think she didn't care what happened to him, so long as _she_ wound up feeling , Irene replied thickly, "No, you're fine it's just... You don't have to do that."

"Oh," Sherlock said, sitting up and allowing Irene to bring her knees together. She twisted them down and laid on her side for good measure. Sherlock's brow was furrowed deeply, and she could practically see his mind fighting against the combination of cocaine and his own lack of interpersonal awareness to make sense of what had happened. "I just thought... I'm sorry. Was that not the appropriate response?" Sherlock stammered, uncharacteristically flustered, and evidently taking this the wrong way.

"No, it was a more than appropriate response," Irene said with a gentle smile she wasn't sure he could see in the dark. "It's just that... well, this was supposed to be something special for you. It should be about your pleasure, not mine."

In the slash of light spilling in from the bathroom, Irene could see Sherlock's face fall, his cheeks turning crimson as he looked off into the darkness and breathed shakily. Irene had made a very good living out of humiliating people, but she'd never seen anyone look as utterly mortified as Sherlock did now, though she wasn't sure why. He didn't say anything, and she knew he wouldn't now even if she asked. Sherlock looked as if he were folding in on himself, slamming closed every door that had been opened tonight by the drugs. Irene didn't know what to say to him, what to ask. She got the sickening feeling that she'd unknowingly inflicted some damaged that couldn't be undone, and now felt even worse about her actions than ever before. "Your crash should be hitting you soon," she said, changing topics. "And I'm afraid it will be a bad one after how much you've taken..." Sherlock nodded robotically.

Irene's throat clenched painfully as she watched Sherlock slowly scoot over to sit on the far edge of the bed, his back to her. The haze of arousal had cleared entirely from her head, and Irene was left with nothing but cold reality before her. She looked at Sherlock, no longer in desire, but in honest evaluation of his miserable state. She really _saw_ him this time. He had rested his hands on his knees, leaning heavily on his limbs and hanging his head down. She could see his vertebrae and shoulder blades sticking out on his sickly pale skin. The arms he leaned on were speckled with purple track marks. He was trembling, though with the cocaine crash or something else, Irene couldn't quite say.

After a few moments, Sherlock sprang into action, grabbing his boxers from the floor and slipping them back on. Irene sat up quickly. "Where are you going?" she asked, a little worried.

"I don't know. But I can't stay here," he replied in a raspy voice, standing up, his legs wobbling. He was in no condition to do that much, little less leave her flat.

Irene moved fast enough to grab his wrist just as he started to take a step towards the door. "Sherlock-" she began.

He flinched as if burned, yanking his arm away. "Don't," he said, eyes on the floor. "Don't touch me, please."

Her heart clenched painfully in sympathy. She could imagine the sort of day he was having in that she, too, had disappeared and left behind every comfort of her old life. It wasn't a stretch for her to imagine the despairing thoughts going through his mind due to this anniversary. But this, on top of that... his first vaguely sexual experience turning out this way? God, she couldn't even imagine. Cautiously, she got up from the bed and stood a few feet away from him, blocking his exit. "No, you stay here. I'll go," she offered.

Sherlock looked despondent but seemed to lack the energy to fight. "Fine," he sighed, crawling back into the bed, pulling the covers up to his neck as he curled onto his side. His gaze was fixed somewhere off in the darkness.

Irene started to leave, then thought of something. She walked back to the nightstand and grabbed the tin foil of cocaine and put it in his duffle bag. "I'm going to take this with me. Just for safe keeping, all right?" she asked. She was sure he understood what she meant, that she wasn't about to leave him with any more drugs after all of this. When he didn't say anything, she headed for the door. Irene started to pull the door closed, then paused a moment. Her voice was full of a gentle compassion that surprised herself as she said, "Sherlock, it isn't your fault."

There was a long beat, and she didn't think he was going to respond until finally he asked sardonically, "Which part?"

Irene didn't have an answer for that. She slowly closed the door the rest of the way, leaving him alone.

* * *

There was no 'morning after'. There wasn't even an 'afternoon after'. Irene kept checking in on Sherlock periodically, but the large amount of cocaine he'd taken in the previous 36 hours appeared to have completely exhausted him. She had no idea what to say to him whenever he came out, and the more time she had to think about it, the worse it got. She'd realised how strong Sherlock's walls must be for it to have taken so much cocaine for him to feel loose enough to make the sort of sexual advance he'd made on her last night. But then, ultimately the cocaine had only made everything much, much worse.

Miserably, she'd started to wonder if he could ever reach that level of comfort without the drugs.

By the time Sherlock came out of the room, dressed in his jeans and black button up shirt again, it was 6pm and Irene had been feeling on edge all day. She was sitting on the couch having a glass of wine when Sherlock entered. It took all of her will not to freeze awkwardly when he looked over at her. He shifted uncomfortably and looked away. Even the great Sherlock Holmes seemed unable to pretend that nothing had happened between them at this stage. Irene knew this was going to make him feel like a stupid teenager, which was such a darkly ironic contrast to the very mature and adult things he was dealing with on this anniversary. Sherlock was the first to speak, asking tightly, "Do you have my bag?"

Irene picked the duffle bag up from beside the couch, stood, and handed it to him. In truth, she was glad to be rid of the stuff. At the same time, she hated giving it back to him. "Here you are," she said. "How are you feeling? After the drugs, I mean," she was quick to clarify, not wanting to talk about the other thing if he didn't want to.

Sherlock grimaced. "About as you'd expect." He closed one eye tightly, and she wondered if he had a migraine. "But then I knew what I was getting into."

Irene wasn't sure about that, but let the statement go. There was something she'd been debating doing all day, and now as she looked at him and felt her heart ache in longing, she knew she had to do it. She reached in her pocket and pulled out the 900 shekels he'd given her. "Here, take it back," she said.

His brow furrowed. "Why? You did your job. You... minded me. Might have kept me from killing myself." She was a bit shocked to hear him admit that.

"Yes," she conceded, then hesitated a moment. Finally she extended the money towards him and said, "But I'm not a prostitute."

Sherlock's face fell, and Irene's jaw clenched in immediate regret as she realised he'd taken that the wrong way. "I see," he said tightly. He looked at the money, then back at her, his face colouring in anger. "That's what you meant about 'doing something special for my pleasure, not yours', isn't it? You thought I was paying for a pity shag." Understanding now why Sherlock had responded to that comment as strongly as he had, Irene felt sick. Sherlock swallowed hard, looking like he was struggling very much to keep himself in check. Which only made Irene feel worse, because it took quite a bit to get Sherlock to lose control."You think that's what I was asking from you?"

Suddenly something clicked in Irene's mind, and his deep shame from the night before made sense. He still thought she didn't actually want him. It made her heart ache because he couldn't have been more wrong. It was true that she had thought sex might distract him, but she wouldn't have even considered it if it hadn't been for their mutual desire. "No, I know you weren't asking for that. And I wasn't going to sleep with you as a _favour,_" Irene replied, putting the money back in her pocket. Shit, she knew having all day to over think things was going to be a horrible idea. She wanted him to take the money back precisely because she _wasn't_ doing this out of obligation. Because she'd done it as someone who cared about him, not someone who was _paid _to care about him.

Sherlock sneered. "Of course not. You just want it to be understood that you're not that kind of girl, but that I'm that kind of man." He took a step towards her, glowering down in pained anger. "You think I want, need, or desire to pay someone to have sex with me? Just anyone at all? If that's what I were interested in, I would have done that. I could have done so years ago."

"I'm sorry, that isn't what I meant," she said, sincerely. How was it that things she meant as gestures of her genuinely caring for him kept coming off as patronising instead? She didn't know if this was her own fault for being too subtle or simply a product of his own insecurity and inability to read interpersonal social cues. "I just didn't want you to get the wrong idea."

Sherlock swallowed, and she noticed he was shaking a little with anger as he gave her a hard stare and asked, "What would be the right idea, then, Irene?"

Irene didn't know how to answer that. The right idea was that she cared deeply about him, was attracted to him, wanted him. But also that she was appalled by his current state and fearful for his future. She was horrified at her own role in enabling him to fall so far. But what did that make her? She didn't know. After several long moments of her saying nothing, Sherlock looking away and spat bitterly, "Well, you needn't panic about your virtues and professionalism being besmirched. We didn't have sex anyway." He seemed more embarrassed now than angry, and turned away to head to the kitchen. She watched as he grabbed a glass from the cabinet and filled it with water, then began to down it greedily. She wondered how long it had been since he'd drank or ate anything.

Quietly, Irene approached him, standing on the border between the kitchen and the living room. "What is it _you_ think this is, Sherlock?" she asked, her eyes full of concern.

For a moment, he said nothing, taking another swallow of water before his anger melted away. It was replaced by a horrible kind of resignation. Defeated, he said, "I think it's your _magnum opus. _Your most thorough job of humiliating someone to date." That stung, and Irene could hardly believe he thought that. But Sherlock looked like he had more he wanted - _needed_ to say, so she held her tongue and let him continue. "Back in London, I fell into your traps repeatedly. I only seemed to win because I found your weakness. And yet in the end, you had me wrapped around your finger. I came all that way to rescue you. Then when it was I who had to go into hiding, of course I came crawling to _your _doorstep. And then I _keep_ coming back again and again, holding onto the same foolish hope I did every time you used to text me. God, Mycroft was right," he laughed bitterly. "One lonely, naive man desperate to show off and a woman clever enough to make him feel special," he quoted, and Irene was stung at having their past dug up. Hadn't things changed radically between them since then? Sherlock had been avoiding her eyes, but now he looked at her, his expression full of chagrin. "I came to you because you were the only person I could talk to. The only person I could trust my life to. But I came back not because I wanted to see someone, but because I wanted to see _you_."

She knew how hard that admission must have been for him. He was never this open, and she realised just how utterly broken he must be to speak so plainly of his feelings. She already knew the drugs could do that to him. And now she knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she could as well. That together the cocaine and she had finally dominated Sherlock into utter, heartbroken submission. Irene's heart beat painfully against her ribcage. "Sherlock, I swear to you, this isn't part of any plan. It's not a game. And the last thing on earth I want is to humiliate you. I care about you."

He looked at her, studying her with the intense, deductive gaze that was all his own. She had no idea what he was seeing, but she could tell that he desperately wanted to believe her. Finally, he said softly, "Even if that were true, it would hardly matter. I have to be able to concentrate on my work." He looked at her evenly. "I can't come back here anymore."

Irene's eyes began to sting with unshed tears. She had a million angry thoughts about why couldn't she be one way and why couldn't he be another and why hadn't she simply told him from the beginning that she didn't want his money? Nor did she want to 'mind' him while he slowly killed himself. But now he'd made his decision. And the damage the previous night had done to their relationship was most likely irreparable. There was no reason to reiterate that she had genuinely wanted him. He clearly didn't believe her capable of such a sentiment. Instead Irene just nodded and said through a clenched, choked throat, "I understand." Sherlock nodded and was about to leave when she added, "Wait. Please take the money." He started to object, but she cut him off. "Never mind what you paid me for or any of that. Now it's my money and I'm asking you to take it, please."

"No, don't give me money," Sherlock replied.

Irene could hardly believe the stubbornness this man possessed. She thrust the bills out at him. "It'll be two days before you have anything back in your account. You won't even have money for food, and I know you haven't eaten in at least a day, probably more. Take it."

"Irene, you can't give me money. I won't spend it on food," Sherlock snapped.

Silence filled the room as the realisation of what he meant hit her. Irene slowly slid the cash back into her pocket. She watched Sherlock swallowing, looking anywhere but at her, and could only guess at all the things running through his mind. Irene turned towards a cabinet and grabbed several protein bars and a couple sports drinks. She turned around and offered them to Sherlock. "Here, then," she said. "Take these."

Sherlock paused momentarily, then opened his bag and let her toss the food and drinks inside. "Thank you," he said numbly.

Irene gave him one last pleading look. "You have to stop, you know. Or at least slow down."

Sherlock looked at her with surprising softness in his eyes. "I know," he conceded.

"Will you?" she asked.

A beat. "I don't know," he said. Then he turned away and walked out the front door without looking back or saying good bye.

* * *

**Note: **So there's one story left in this series, but that story accounts for about 40% of the series overall. It's about 5 chapters. So there's still quite a bit to go, in spite of this being the end of the 4th story.


	7. 5: One for the Road, chapter 1

**Note: **First off, I have to say that I've had some wonderful conversations with you all in response to reviews. I think it's the most enjoyable time I've had sharing a story. So thank you very much for that.

Secondly, originally this part was 5 chapters, but now it's 6. I decided to break it up sort of as 5 and an epilogue. I think. That's what it is for now, anyway :p

The Shalom Hotel Tel Aviv is a real place, and the rooms really are as described. Even the see-through bathrooms. Google it.

* * *

**5: One for the Road  
**(1/6)

The local drugstore certainly wasn't the most chic place to pick up wine. And it didn't escape Irene just how symbolic this was of how her life had changed in the last two years. But at 8pm on a Friday in Tel Aviv, most of the proper stores were closed for the Sabbath. And there were some decent 100 shekel wines to be had at this store. You couldn't blame a girl for being a bit desperate. It had been a long day of work and sometimes you simply needed almost any kind of drink. As Irene picked up her chosen bottle and started to round the tall shelves of wine, she stopped short at the sight of the slender, dark-haired man a few aisles over.

It had been five months since Sherlock Holmes had essentially dragged his drug-addled, horribly mortified self out of her flat the last time. Five months, and she had truly and fully come to believe she would never see him again. Either because he would avoid the chance of ever looking her in the eye again or because he would go on another binge, this time alone, and would wind up ODing. She tried not to think about that, though once in a while the image would come to mind and turn her blood cold. But now here he was, a bit bruised and scraped but looking better than the last time she'd seen him. Sherlock Holmes, buying medical supplies in her drug store in Tel Aviv, when he could have been literally anywhere in the world right now.

Now Irene needed something stronger than wine.

Ducking back behind the wine rack, she felt secure enough to watch him a moment. He was gathering up various sizes of plasters, gauze, medical tape, and antiseptic cream. _Having another good week, then_, she mused, thinking of the various injuries he'd sported the times he'd dropped in. She knew the work he was doing taking down Moriarty's network was dangerous. As she watched him head to the counter and purchase a slew of medical supplies, she was reminded that this was yet another thing that could have killed him. Irene closed her eyes briefly.

Then, making a decision, she set the wine she'd chosen back on the rack and discretely followed Sherlock out the door. It was risky, but she wasn't about to let him go. Not when she had feared he was already dead by now. Even keeping about 20 metres between them, she knew he might realise someone was following him. After all, if he didn't have that kind of caution, he wouldn't have made it this far. But after a block or so, Irene realised there was something different about Sherlock's gait, his stance, everything. He was hurrying, sure, but he didn't seem to be glancing around or nervous at all. It worried her a little. Did he care so little for his own safety that he'd given up precaution?

Irene was further surprised when he entered a small boutique hotel on the beach. The Shalom Hotel Tel Aviv, the sign said. An expensive, sophisticated sort of place by the looks of things. Not at all what she expected. Living on a budget and trying to avoid any special attention, she'd have figured Sherlock had mostly stayed in grimy budget motels for the past eighteen months. A fancy hotel on the beach with very few rooms and an attentive staff who would remember all their customers didn't fit at all.

Watching from outside the doors to the hotel lobby, Irene saw Sherlock make his way through the lobby filled with wing-backed, nicely upholstered chairs. He headed into the back and presumably towards some stairs. If she lost complete sight of him before he got to his room, it would be a chore to figure out where he was. Not impossible, but it would certainly take time and Irene was feeling quite impatient. In fact, she realised her heart was pounding more rapidly than usual as she stepped into the lobby and strode confidently but calmly to the back stairwell.

Making her way up the stairs cautiously, Irene glanced around the corner at the first floor landing just in time to see Sherlock disappearing into a room at the far end of the hall. _An ocean view room to boot_, Irene thought. Quiet, private. Well that part was like Sherlock at least. So were the white washed wood-panelled walls with their thick navy and white striped upholstery. The whole thing reminded her a bit of her flat in Belgravia, actually. Irene felt a strange pang of homesickness. It was a few moments before she slowly made her way down the hallway, walking lightly, though she wasn't sure why. It wasn't as though she were going to break into Sherlock's room. He'd obviously know she was out here sooner or later.

But as she approached, Irene realised she hadn't really got a good idea what she was going to say. When Sherlock had left her flat five months before, she'd realised how thoroughly she'd lost his trust. Even if he believed her pleas that she wasn't trying to manipulate him, their last encounter had to have been thoroughly embarrassing and damaging enough on its own. She hadn't stopped him leaving then because he'd decided he couldn't see her anymore. And now, she realised, he was certainly sticking to that. He was in Tel Aviv and hadn't even bothered to look her up. Clearly Sherlock still had no desire to see her. That was enough to give her pause.

But standing outside his door now, Irene could faintly here him moving around inside. He was _here_, on the other side of this door. Irene didn't believe in fate or destiny, nothing so trite as that. But she did believe in seizing the moment and having no fear. She'd spent five months worrying about Sherlock, wondering if she should have stopped him from leaving before, if it was only her pride holding her back from saying what she had really wanted to. She certainly knew that she'd badly mucked up her chance to explain herself the night after they'd nearly slept together. She'd given him the impression that she'd only been doing him a sexual favour, and it had devastated him. In the months since then, it had devastated her. There'd been many things she wanted to say and didn't. Many she was sure she'd never get the chance to say to him. And she'd be damned if she was going to pass up such an opportunity again.

Reaching her hand up and forcing an outward air of confidence, Irene knocked assertively on Sherlock's door.

The rustling sounds inside abated. Even though she couldn't hear it, Irene would bet anything that Sherlock had approached the door silently. He had to be well practiced at such things by now. Irene tried to look neither smug nor terrified as she folded her arms across her chest and waited. The glass of the peephole in the door darkened, the only indication that anyone was directly on the other side. The eye slid away. There was a long, pregnant pause. Irene was starting to consider that Sherlock might actually ignore her when she heard the latch click softly.

The door eased open painfully slowly, and then only halfway. Sherlock stood there with his left arm behind the door as if it were a shield. Irene surveyed him calmly. He looked less sickly than the last time she'd seen him, and she could only pray he wasn't using nearly so much cocaine. Perhaps he was even off it entirely after risking dying in her flat five months earlier. Still, he seemed flustered and a bit worse for the wear. He'd already put a small Elastoplast on a cut beside his right eye, but there were several long scratches on his face left exposed to the air. Even with his chest halfway concealed, Irene could see that he'd undone his shirt and was probably about to tend to a patchwork of scrapes and bruises there.

Irene took all of this in with a cool sweep of her eyes, then turned her gaze up to him. She was surprised that he was meeting her eyes at all, his expression one of practiced detachment. But it didn't last long before he looked down, breathing deeply as if trying to remain calm. She'd wager there weren't many things that could throw off Sherlock Holmes these days. But to her surprise, Irene found she wasn't really proud of being one of them anymore. She waited several seconds before realising he wasn't collecting himself to speak to her; he didn't seem to be planning on saying or doing anything, really. Raising an eyebrow, she prompted, "Are you going to say something?"

His head lifted slowly, and he glared at her. "You knocked on _my_ door."

"And you opened it," she pointed out.

"I was afraid you'd only break in otherwise," he replied. In fairness, that wasn't entirely unprecedented. "How did you find me?"

"I saw you in the drugstore and followed you here," Irene explained plainly.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You just _happened_ to be in the same store at the same time as I was? It's not even your neighbourhood," he pointed out, and Irene didn't miss the suggestion that he'd intentionally chosen to stay away from her flat.

"I'd been out at dinner and was grabbing some wine before I went home," Irene asserted. He still seemed incredibly suspicious. Swallowing her pride, Irene said, "Look, I'm sure both of us are capable of standing at the threshold trading barbs all night, but I'd much rather dispense with that and come inside where we can properly talk."

After studying her a few moments, Sherlock took a step back from the door. "Talk all you like. But I've got nothing to say," he said flatly, turning and heading back into the room.

Irene let herself in, shutting the door behind her. Sherlock was standing by his trove of medical supplies laid out on the desk. He finished removing his shirt and started dabbing the antiseptic cream onto his scrapes. Irene looked away from him to take in the room. It was open and very comfortable and posh looking. The headboard was upholstered in the same silk striped fabric as the hallways, though with extra adorned patterns in gold thread. Everything else was white or lightly crisscrossed in grey. There was a large soaker tub by the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the ocean. The bathroom off to her right was peculiar, with surrounding walls made entirely of glass, opening it to the rest of the room. There was an optional privacy curtain on the outside for good measure.

Irene nodded in approval, looking back to Sherlock. "Very nice hotel. We could almost be in a seaside town back in England." Sherlock said nothing, occupied with trying to tape a piece of gauze to a large gash on his right arm. "Need some help?" Irene asked.

"Why, do you want to be paid to be my nurse this time?" Sherlock asked acidly, glancing at her only briefly before he continued taping the dressing down. Irene swallowed, stung by the comment as she wagered he hoped she would be. Sherlock continued, "And just so we're clear, when I told you last time that I didn't want you to touch me, I meant that unconditionally. If you have something to say, spit it out and be on your way." The sharp edge in his tone surprised her, though she supposed it shouldn't. After all, he'd seemed thoroughly humiliated and, though she would never use these words to him, broken-hearted when he'd left her flat before. Unfortunately for him, the fact that he was still so hurt by what had happened only told her his sentiments towards her hadn't changed.

But she couldn't just spit out what she had to say. In reality, she hadn't any idea what she wanted to say to him or what she could say to mend things between them. She'd reacted on instinct following him here, and now her mind was spinning for something solid to grasp. Changing subjects, she nodded at the scrapes and bruises covering his arms and chest. "Where are those from this time?" she inquired.

Sherlock hesitated only momentarily before saying, as if giving a favourable weather report, "Well I've just come from killing Sebastian Moran about, oh, three hours ago, out by the Dead Sea. And he wasn't too keen on the idea, hence all of these."

Irene's eyes widened, her throat constricting in fear just at the mention of that name. From what she knew, Moran was Moriarty's top lieutenant, the one almost certainly in control of his network since his death. He was also a fierce fighter, shooter, and the man who'd been assigned as John's personal sniper in Moriarty's morbid trap for Sherlock. So to hear Sherlock mention so flippantly that he'd just _murdered_ Moran… Irene's heart was pounding and all she was doing was standing still. "God," she breathed finally, trying to focus enough to make sense of it all. Setting aside the notion of Sherlock having fresh blood on his hands, Irene asked, "So what does that mean? For the network?"

"It means," Sherlock said, pausing to rip open an Elastoplast wrapper with his teeth before he set about applying it to a deep puncture wound on his left shoulder. "That Moriarty's network is effectively defunct."

Irene held her breath a moment, staring at Sherlock for signs of a reaction. He had to realise how huge this was, but he was characteristically unshaken. Irene was forced to prompt him. "And what does that mean for you?"

Now Sherlock hesitated, sounding slightly more circumspect as he said, "I fly back to London tomorrow afternoon. I'd have gladly gone tonight if I could. Moran's body is in a sinkhole by the sea, but I left his possessions in plain sight. He should be found by hikers or bathers in a few days. Which I dare say Mossad will be happy to hear about, given his connections with Hamas… still, I'd rather not be in Israel when that happens, just in case. But I had to make my flight a few days ago, and people don't always step into a trap precisely on schedule."

Irene tried to hide her surprise and lamentation at hearing he would be leaving the next day. "Lucky I happened to see you when I did, then," she said.

"Is it?' he asked beneath his breath.

"You were going to come through Tel Aviv without ever seeing me," Irene pointed out.

"That was the plan," Sherlock muttered, affixing one final dressing. "But evidently you have something terribly pressing to discuss."

He was more right than he knew, but Irene wasn't half prepared to talk about it. He was leaving tomorrow, which both meant he wouldn't be here much longer and that he wasn't running off right away. If only she could find a way or the time to put her thoughts in order and express them to him. As it was, all she could say was, "I don't. I only wanted to see you."

"Well," Sherlock said, looking at her icily as he pulled a syringe and familiar vial out of his bag. Irene's stomach churned and she closed her eyes briefly. It had probably been too much to hope that he'd quit entirely. What motive did he have to, really? "You can see me as I celebrate my final victory." Irene felt as if her body were made of lead and she could only watch as Sherlock plopped down on the edge of the bed and quickly drew up some of the cocaine solution into the syringe. He cleaned his right elbow with an alcohol swab. Then he set the vial aside, swapped the syringe into his left hand, and began pumping his right fist as he looked around his arm for a vein. It all happened with such practiced and casual efficiency that Irene barely had time to collect herself before Sherlock had slipped the needle in, evidently much more practiced at using his left hand now than he had been over half a year ago when he'd broken his right. The idea made her heart ache.

Sherlock pulled back some blood in the plunger, and Irene didn't have to think twice about what she wanted this time. He was going back to London, which was supposed to mean the end of his nightmare. But it wouldn't be if he just kept on like this regardless of accomplishing his goal. Sherlock had faked his death, had thrown himself into his own personal hell to save people's lives. It was damned well time someone tried to save his.

In a flash, Irene was crouched down in front of Sherlock, her hand covering his left one, stopping him just as he was about to depress the plunger. "Let's have dinner," she said, desperately.

Every muscle in Sherlock's body tensed under her touch and at her words. At first he didn't look up. His jaw was working angrily and his lips trembling with the effort to stay calm. His breathing had become deep and shaky. When he finally looked up from his arm to meet Irene's eyes, the mixture of fury and pain in his expression cut her to the core. "Is this why you came here?" he nearly hissed. "To mock me?"

Irene's face softened to a degree it never had around Sherlock, perhaps around anyone. She looked at him genuinely, without pretence, as her hand held onto his steadily. "I'm not mocking you, Sherlock. I mean it. Is this really how you want to celebrate being free of all this? Going home?"

Sherlock still looked angry but sounded forlorn as he replied, "Wanting doesn't factor into it."

Irene swallowed against the lump in her throat. She couldn't see this again, or do this. Too many times she'd pushed the plunger down herself, either literally or metaphorically. In a lot of ways, she felt it was her fault he had got to this point in the first place. But no more. This wasn't what he liked. And it certainly wasn't what she wanted for him. Continuing to stare at him compassionately, Irene said, "What you want _should _factor in. It always should have." She drew a breath. "I know it might seem easier to try to forget about everything that's happened between us. But that's obviously not true. You clearly haven't, and I know I can't. There are so many things I need you to understand…" she trailed off, uncertain of where she was going, but encouraged by seeing his anger faltering ever so slightly.

Slowly, she lifted her other hand and placed it on the arm the needle was sunk into, gently pulling the arm away, the needle sliding out of the vein along with a drop of blood. Sherlock was trembling ever so slightly with the effort to remain calm. Irene held his now uncertain gaze. "How can you have forgotten what you deduced all that time ago, back in London? You were right about me and how I felt about you. Don't you remember that?"

"Things change," he replied tightly.

"They do," she agreed. "And they have. A lot of it's been for the worse. But that doesn't mean that _sentiments _have changed." She swallowed, feeling a bit uncomfortably exposed by saying those words. "We're complex people you and I. It's why we were drawn to one another in the first place. Don't you think," she said slowly, giving him a slightly challenging look, "that this is a mystery that warrants full exploration to comprehend?"

Sherlock looked wary, clearly aware that she was playing to his natural desire to tear things apart, to look at them from all angles and make an informed deduction about them. But it didn't seem to make that desire of his any less, going by the way he pressed his lips together in frustration. He was teetering on the edge of his decision. Quietly, Irene added sincerely, "Please, Sherlock. I mean it. Have dinner with me?" From the look on his face, Irene knew she had him, and so did he. His curiosity had got the best of him in the end. Whatever deductions he'd made about Irene obviously hadn't set completely right in his mind in the last five months. Sherlock Holmes couldn't resist a good mystery, and this thing between them was certainly that. He nodded in defeat, and she took the syringe from his hand and pulled away. "Can I get rid of this?" she asked softly.

"If you like," he replied, sounding roundly defeated, as if he had stepped into yet another trap he couldn't escape from. She hoped he wouldn't remain this miserable all through dinner, but right now she was content that at least she could toss some of this awful stuff out. She grabbed the vial and headed into the bathroom. Through the glass walls, she could see Sherlock standing slowly and grabbing a spare shirt from his bag as she emptied the cocaine into the sink. By the time she had tossed the syringe and vial into the bin, Sherlock had his new shirt tucked in and buttoned up.

"You don't know how glad I am that I ran into you. To have a chance to see you again, but without all the other things…" Irene trailed off.

Instead of looking relieved by this notion, Sherlock looked very much like someone preparing himself for a slap. As if he were steeling himself against a pain yet to come. _Of course, why shouldn't he expect that from me?_ Irene thought, her chest constricting painfully at the realisation. _That's what always winds up happening, isn't it?_ Sherlock's eyes were on the floor as he said tightly, "Can we go?"

Swallowing and composing her voice into a natural timbre, Irene replied, "Of course." Sherlock waited for her to walk by him before he followed. As they walked down the hallway and headed down to the hotel's restaurant, Sherlock kept his eyes locked straight ahead, his face composed into an unreadable mask.

* * *

Sherlock remained taciturn and miserable-looking all the way through the process of being seated at the restaurant and placing their orders. The silence was unbearable, but Irene couldn't break it until they knew the wait staff would be leaving them alone for a while. She couldn't exactly mention Sherlock's cocaine addiction while people were hustling and bustling to and from the table every couple minutes. They may not have all spoken English perfectly, but both she and Sherlock valued discretion immensely.

When the waiter had finally collected their menus and disappeared, Irene stared across the table at Sherlock, who had managed to collect himself just slightly. He still seemed on edge, but not quite as defeated as he had in his room. "So," Irene began as she unfolded her napkin into her lap. "I'll dispense with small talk, which I know we both loathe." She paused, reflexively waiting for his thanks, which didn't come. He took a sip of his water and said nothing. _This might be harder than I'd thought¸_ she realised. There were a number of things she still wasn't sure how to approach herself, and his attitude wouldn't help that. Still, oddly, there was one area they'd grown quite comfortable with over the past year. Giving him a steady look, she said, "So you're going back to London. And what about the drugs? Are those coming, too?"

He looked up at her, surprised at her bluntness. After a second, he seemed to realise the familiar territory himself, morbid as that was, and said , "No. I'm quitting. I have to."

That made her feel a little better. At least he was acknowledging that he should stop using. But then again, he'd done that five months ago as well. Granted, then he'd made no promises that he was actually going to try to give it up. Now he said he was, but she didn't feel terribly confident about that. "So upstairs before, that was what? One for the road?" she asked. He nodded curtly. "And now you'll quit just like that?" she asked sceptically.

Sherlock pursed his lips. "Yes, not that it's any business of yours."

"That's not what you've been telling me for the past year," she pointed out. "In fact you've made it very much my business." Though she realised that was as much her fault as his, she couldn't resist being contrary. It had always been a fault of hers.

"And then I relieved you of that," he pointed out, smiling humourlessly. "Yet here you are."

Irene's face fell a little. "I'm here," she agreed with a nod, trying to make it more of a show of support than of obligation. "I only meant that I'm sure it's not easy to do something like this on your own. Are you going to a rehab program?"

Sherlock scoffed. "I'm not even officially alive."

"Surely Mycroft can rectify that," Irene ventured. She knew the elder Holmes had been involved in Sherlock's faked death and presumed he'd help get Sherlock reinstated to life. The younger Holmes said nothing, but she took that as affirmation. Then she added, "Maybe he could also help you with this problem…" she trailed off at the look on his face.

Now Sherlock's jaw muscles clenched in anger. In a low voice he said, "It will be a cold day in hell before I tell him about the drugs or ask for his help with it. It would only give him something to gloat about. And it's on account of him all this happened in the first place." He was gripping his water glass tightly in his fist, though he didn't seem conscious of it.

Irene wasn't going to touch that one. Sherlock wasn't wrong to resent his brother, and knowing Mycroft Holmes even in the limited way she did, mostly through Moriarty's provided files, she certainly wouldn't want to beg the man for help either. "Fair enough," she said. "Still, going cold turkey has to be quite a challenge."

"Done it before," Sherlock countered, raising his glass and taking a large swallow of water to calm himself. Though according to those same files from Moriarty, Irene recalled, said periods of sobriety hadn't been terribly long lasting. Not until he'd properly gone to rehab and had John as his flatmate following that, keeping him out of trouble. "It's a few rough weeks mainly," Sherlock continued. "It's not a strongly physical addiction like heroin or even alcohol. Cocaine addiction and therefore withdrawal is primarily psychological in nature."

"Mind over matter, then," Irene said a little flippantly, raising an eyebrow as she sipped her water.

"Precisely," he replied seriously. It was obvious he'd worked this all out and convinced himself precisely of how it would go. "I'll be back in Baker Street and back to work. I won't have any need for the drugs then. I didn't before," he pointed out.

Aware of just how many assumptions he seemed to be making, Irene was much less optimistic. In particular, he seemed to take no account of the fact that certainly things would have changed for John and Lestrade and everyone back in London in the wake of his death. He couldn't simply stroll back alive and except nothing to change, or expect to simply ignore the fact that he'd spent the better part of a year high and gravely depressed. Still, she'd seen Sherlock accomplish all sorts of things. He was no usual case in any respect. Perhaps if he had some help… "You'll tell John, then?"

Sherlock stiffened, giving her a hard stare. "Absolutely not," he said thinly. "There's no reason for him to ever know. And in fact I very much hope to keep it from him. The last thing I need is the further humiliation of John knowing that I-" Sherlock stopped abruptly, seeming to realise what he was saying, and looked away for a moment. But Irene already knew what he was thinking. It was everything Sherlock had been humiliated for _her_ to see. He didn't want John to know that he was weak, that he'd given in to his addiction again, that he'd let himself become so debased and wretched. All of the things that Irene had seen and realised over the past eleven months... well, Sherlock could hardly look her in the eye anymore. And yes, she'd unwittingly inflicted tremendous personal injury on top of that, wounds that she could tell were still gaping open. But his addiction itself was enough to be ashamed of. Of course he didn't want to experience that burden with John. Irene's brow drew up in sympathy and she stayed quiet. It was a moment before Sherlock composed himself and said flatly, "I'm not going to speak to John or Mrs. Hudson until I'm well again."

_He says, as if he had a bad cold he didn't want them to catch,_ Irene thought. Frankly, she was astounded. "So you're going back to London to what, sit in a hotel by yourself and detox?"

"Something like that. I'd also like the chance to observe any new routines or changes with John, as far as I'm able. I've had no news about him since I left. He hasn't even updated that stupid blog of his," Sherlock grumbled, taking a large swallow of water.

Irene's first instinct was to ask why he couldn't stay here and if he would accept her help, but she instantly cut off that line of thinking. He had just killed someone here and, as he said, it might be best to avoid Israel for a while. Furthermore, she knew precisely what sort of response she'd get for such an offer of help. Still, the idea of him sitting alone in some hotel for a further couple weeks, probably going through hell, made her heart twinge again. That was a nasty habit it had picked up over the last year. But really, what was she supposed to feel knowing Sherlock would be suffering on his own? He really ought to ask for John's help. She knew he was worried what his friend would think of him, but Irene wagered the doctor would be fairly understanding. Goodness knew the man was tolerant of Sherlock's other foibles. And John was incredibly protective of his friend, or had been where Irene was concerned. She couldn't imagine him passing judgment on Sherlock now.

But it might not matter. It was enough that Sherlock couldn't bring himself to tell John about it. Irene knew how deeply ashamed he was of all of this. The worst part for her was how badly she'd been enabling him all along. Perhaps even driving him to further use in some ways. When she'd thought about it over the past five months, it had made her feel physically ill. Irene couldn't fathom now how she had ever thought that this was something Sherlock liked. Even the times the drug had boosted his confidence towards her, made him bold enough to express some of what he was feeling, things had turned out dreadfully.

Irene closed her eyes against the volley of images, words, and feelings that came rushing to her unbidden. There was absolutely nothing in it that she felt proud of in the least. She was brought back to the present, thankfully, by the wait staff arriving with their food and setting it on the table. A 'thank you' and a 'more water, please, yes' was hardly enough to fully distract her, though. Once the waiter left, it was her turn to look miserable. Sherlock didn't seem to notice, however, now that he had the excuse of his food to focus on. He certainly wasn't going to make this any easier on her. "Sherlock," she said, attempting to get his attention. She hoped he would look at her, but he didn't. "I know I have no ground to stand on when it comes to the drugs. I'm the one who didn't stop you in the first place. Or the fourth, for that matter," she added quietly.

Now he did glance up, though warily, his fork paused halfway to his mouth. "Well, hindsight," he muttered, taking a bite.

Irene shook her head slightly. "No, it's not that. I knew at the time it was wrong. _Every_ time. I could see what it was doing to you."

Sherlock swallowed and set his fork down slowly. She noticed his hand was trembling. He took a drink of water as if to steady himself before looking up at her fully. "Well if you had such strong objections," he began, his tone terse and accusatory, "why didn't you try and stop me?"

That was a loaded question and he knew it, judging by his tone of voice and the way he was now leaning forward onto the table. Irene had had a lot of time to think about this particular topic and she knew precisely why. There had been times when all she'd longed for was a chance to see him again and to tell him how stupid and prideful she'd been. It was part of what had driven her to follow him here in the first place. And yet even now Irene faltered, seeing the controlled anger in his expression and wondering if telling him would only make things worse now. So instead she said, "I thought I was respecting your wishes. That's what you were paying me for."

Unfortunately, that only made Sherlock more angry. His tone was low and cutting as he stared back at her and said, "And if I'd paid you to mind the door whilst I shot myself in the head, would you have done that, too?"

Irene's brows drew together involuntarily, softening her expression into one of deep regret. She knew the comparison wasn't actually all that exaggerated. But what was more, his deep anger made her suddenly realise a possibility she hadn't considered before. She'd thought his repeated trips to see her were only because he was attracted to her and wanted to be near her. Which was obviously true enough. But what if there were more to it? Drawing a steadying breath and surprised at how shaken she was all of a sudden, Irene asked tentatively, "Did you want me to stop you?"

"Of course not," Sherlock snapped. "I only meant that it's massively hypocritical to protest my actions now since you stood by without a word when you were being paid to do so. Clearly the money mattered more to you than my addiction. I knew that. I went to you to experiment and use in relative safety, not because I wanted to be _rescued_," Sherlock spat, perhaps a little too quickly and vehemently.

"Those aren't mutually exclusive," Irene said, trying hard to swallow the pain of his accusation that she'd only cared about the money. Sherlock focused deliberately on slicing up his food. From his denial, she already felt like he'd given his true answer. And it cut her to the core. Of course he did want to use in safety, and she was the only person he knew so he had little choice. But he'd already admitted last time that he kept coming back because he wanted to see her. And, she realised, because he wanted her to care for him. Enough that she might stop him. Because he seemed incapable of stopping himself. And she'd done nothing up until the point where he was literally going to die right there in her flat if he injected that speedball. That was comparatively little consolation when she might have stopped him altogether from the beginning, or several times after, before he'd gotten completely back into addiction. God, he had every right to think her cold and indifferent.

Irene swallowed hard, surprised to find her throat stinging and trembling. She wasn't one to show any emotion most of the time. If she had been, things would never have got this bad. And for once, she didn't hide the tremor in her voice. For once, she realised he needed to hear it. "Sherlock, I wanted to stop you." Her tone must have surprised him, because he stopped eating and looked at her warily. She continued, "I swear I did. Every time. I'm sorry."

"Then why didn't you?" he asked, dropping all pretence that he didn't know what she meant. Acknowledging subtly that at least part of him had hoped she would have helped him quit.

Irene smiled mirthlessly. "I didn't want you to think I was being sentimental. I know how much you detest that. And I'm guilty of that myself." Now he was holding her gaze, his expression full of trepidation. "You've always said sentiment was so dangerous-"

"It has been to me. It's been nothing but," Sherlock replied tightly.

Irene shook her head. "No, you're wrong. What's been worse for us both has been _denying_ the sentiments that plainly exist between us. Really, isn't hiding it, trying to keep it a secret, something that's proved a weakness to us both? If we were truly devoid of sentiment, that would be one thing. But that's clearly not the case. We've both known that since London, but we've adamantly denied it. At least I have, out of a frankly idiotic sense of pride." She watched his face to see if he were letting that pride fall now, even just a little, but unfortunately his expression was set into a stolid mask. Irene would have to be the one to humble herself fully, then. "If we'd been upfront about it, if we were like ordinary people-"

Sherlock scoffed, cutting her off again. "Which I have no desire to be, I assure you. And I don't know why you should want to be, either. It would rob you of your best qualities."

"If at least in this _one_ respect we were a _bit_ more like ordinary people and didn't have such a ridiculous commitment to detachment," Irene pressed on, determined now not to let anything stop her. She'd taken the leap in her mind already. Now she only had to get the words out so there'd be no turning back. "We'd have saved ourselves a lot of trouble." She leaned forward, lowering her voice a bit and consciously encroaching on his space. He didn't lean away, just as she knew he wouldn't. His pride wouldn't allow it. "Because the first time you showed up at my flat asking if I could mind you while you shot up, I would have tossed the drugs out the window, tossed you on the bed, and shagged you senseless instead."

Sherlock remained admirably calm, pursing his lips and furrowing his brow angrily. "That's your solution to everything, is it?" he asked lowly. His eyes pierced hers accusingly. "This is what _you_ like. What gets you off. Toying with people, seducing them, knowing you have that power. Which is all well and good. But I'm not giving you that power over me any more, Irene." Then, to her surprise, he pulled out his wallet and tossed down some money, just enough to cover his own half-eaten meal. He stood before she could say anything, probably knowing that now she'd have to raise her voice to speak to him. And she wouldn't want to cause a scene.

He was right about that. As Sherlock strode out the dining room door and onto the hotel's deck, Irene was left scrambling through her purse for some shekels. He might have been hoping she'd just leave well enough alone, but she hadn't dwelled on this for five months just to let him go that easily. Making sure to leave a bit of extra money, Irene collected her purse and walked across the lobby to the doors leading onto the deck.


	8. 5: One for the Road, chapter 2

**Note: **I think there are still 6 chapters in this. There might be 5 on second evaluation, but I'll stick with 6 for now.

It came to my attention recently that there are some little parts in this and actually the following chapters that bear some resemblance to certain scenes or conversations in Francesca Wayland's amazing Sherlock/Irene post-Karachi story, _Neither a Soldier Nor a Gentleman_. I just wanted to reiterate that I wrote this story months ago, before she'd posted those chapters, and that any resemblance is completely coincidental. And is, in fact, a little erie. Hand to God, I wrote this stuff before she posted the chapters with some similar things. It's more prevalent in the next chapter than this one. I just wanted to disclaim that ahead of time. And if for some reason any of you haven't read that story yet, you should do so ASAP. It's angsty and clever and beautiful and just bloody brilliant.

* * *

**5: One for the Road  
(2/6)**

As soon as Irene was outside, she realised why Sherlock had retreated out here instead of into his room. There were a handful of other people on the spacious deck, lounging in chairs, drinking wine, chatting. Which would make it much more difficult to make a scene or to pin him down. Clever, naturally. Sherlock had retreated to one corner, near a large bowl-like wicker couch. But rather than sit and lounge around, he was standing, leaning on the metal railing of the deck, glancing out at the moonlight on the water. The lines of his body looked tense, his posture carefully controlled. He was trying very hard to force himself into composure. When Irene approached, he glanced over at her briefly, then let out a small sigh as his eyes drifted back to the sea. Of course he'd known she would follow him. But he didn't seem at all eager to listen to her.

"I don't know how to convince you I wasn't toying with you last time," Irene said, leaning on the railing as well, but giving him a few feet of space lest she spook him again. "I told you then that I wasn't, but evidently you don't believe me capable of real feeling." His eyes slid over to hers, betraying the slightest amount of regret. _Good, _Irene thought. She almost never showed her own pain, but in this case, Sherlock deserved to know that he wasn't the only one who'd been hurt. That his implication that she was merely a manipulative bitch cut her to the core. When he glanced away in chagrin, Irene felt slightly vindicated. After letting this sink in for a moment, she turned her head towards him and lowered her voice. "And I hardly think I can be accused of seducing _you_ in that instance. I seem to recall you propositioning _me_ rather bluntly," she said pointedly, raising an eyebrow.

Sherlock's cheeks coloured ever so slightly, and he refused to look at her. "Well, I was hardly in my right mind, was I," he muttered.

"No," Irene agreed. She hesitated, hoping that she could phrase this next bit well enough not to give him the wrong idea for once. "And perhaps I shouldn't have consented when you were in that state. I feel a bit like I took advantage of you, to be honest," she said, glancing down. She could feel Sherlock's eyes on her, and looked up at him. "You hardly had the faculty to make a clear decision. And I might have known it would be difficult for you, or anyone, to perform under those conditions."

Sherlock closed his eyes, undoubtedly in embarrassment, and Irene immediately added, "And surely as a man of science you understand that. Still, I _did_ consent. I would have slept with you then, and even if it would have been a bad decision, I dare say we both might have had a more enjoyable time of the last five months if I had." Sherlock opened his eyes and gave her a sidelong look of warning. Irene merely shrugged. "Well, it's what we both wanted, isn't it? And not only for physical gratification. It isn't like I'm incapable of finding that elsewhere. I have, here and there. You do know that I'm not normally attracted to men, don't you?"

"I'm aware," he said, facing out towards the water.

"Well, there. That should tell you something in and of itself about last time," she pointed out. Shifting so that her elbow was on the rail and her head was propped up on her fist, Irene gave him an even stare. "Really, Sherlock. Think about all of this logically," she said, making sure there was no air of seduction in her tone. That seemed to get his attention. At least he turned his head to look at her, which was progress. "I do toy with men as part of my job. But I'd hardly _sleep_ with those men just to prove myself the victor. Give me some credit."

"Perhaps," Sherlock conceded uneasily, looking as if he were trying to mull the logic of it over in his mind. Then he sighed, closing his eyes a moment before asking, "What is all of this, then? Tracking me down this way? Inviting me to 'dinner'?"

Irene eyed him steadily. "A date," she said, simply and honestly.

_Finally_ Sherlock looked thrown and uncertain. As if for the first time that evening, he wasn't 100% convinced that she was manipulating him. Merely 98%. "A date?" he asked sceptically.

"Yes, I'm sure you've heard of them," Irene replied with a raised eyebrow. "Two people sitting down and talking about things. Hopefully having a good time."

"I've been on a date before," he snapped.

Part of her was a bit surprised and dying to know more. But Irene sensed that prying into his past would only make him more upset. He _had _alluded to some bad experiences with women at university, and then there was the business with the poor American girl he'd tried to chat up whilst high... Perhaps she ought to tease him a little less. More seriously, she said, "I wanted to talk to you. I wanted to apologise for my role in your…" Glancing around and seeing that no one was standing within earshot she continued, "addiction." The word made Sherlock shift his weight uncomfortably. "But I also simply wanted to see you again. To spend time with you."

"Why?" he asked, still guarded.

"Because I'm interested in you," Irene replied in frustration. How much more straightforward could she be with Sherlock? She didn't think she'd ever known such a genius or such an idiot; for them to both to exist as the same man was astounding. She wagered John must feel this frustration constantly.

Sherlock stared down at her evenly. "I should think you'd have learned quite enough about me to satisfy your interest by this point," he said. Then the hard look in his eyes receded, and Sherlock turned his head fully away from Irene as he added more quietly, "And much more than I wish you had."

Irene looked away from him, down at the metal railing she was leaning on. Her mind was honed to sense shame in all its forms, and she knew precisely what Sherlock meant. She really had seen the worst sides of him, dark recesses of his soul she wagered almost no one had seen. Perhaps his family or in some cases Lestrade, anyone who'd known him during the worst of his drug addiction before. But back then, he hadn't also been in hiding and spending most of his time hunting dangerous people. Irene shuddered to think of how skilled a killer Sherlock must have become to have bested Moran. Surely that was enough of a psychological burden on its own. Sherlock had a strong viscous streak, but before all of this he'd never actually killed anyone. At least, that's what Moriarty's files had said, and Irene tended to believe those.

But Irene knew that wasn't what bothered Sherlock the most. His dreadful business and agonising relapse into addiction were awful for Irene to witness and obviously had been for Sherlock to live through. But knowing him, the worst part had to have been Irene getting an intensely personal glimpse into his _heart._ She was certain no other soul ever had. Not in this way. That kind of exposure would be difficult for anyone, let alone Sherlock. The cocaine had eliminated that barrier, at least. "I know you would never have let me see those sides of you had you been sober," Irene said.

"Obviously," Sherlock replied, staring stonily back at the ocean, his features tight.

"But I _did _see all of that. Yet here I am. What does that tell you?" Irene challenged, gazing at him until he at least gave her a measuring glance. "And whatever my other failings might be as a friend and minder, at least I'm not easily shocked."

"No, I doubt you've ever been accused of that," Sherlock conceded, the slightest hint of humour in his voice.

Irene allowed time for the silence between them to become mostly comfortable. She could tell that appealing to his sense of logic was chipping away at the frightfully cruel picture he had built up of her. His feelings about himself were another matter. Irene feared being too direct, both for his sake and hers. But, her personal fears of intimacy aside, she'd rather help him to come to a conclusion on his own than force it upon him. And there were things she really _didn't_ quite understand. "Can I ask you," she began after a period of silence. Sherlock sighed, seeming to prepare himself for another round as he turned and looked down at her whilst leaning on the rail. At least he didn't cut her off. "Why didn't you kiss me?"

"What?" Sherlock asked, his brow furrowing in confusion.

"Before, when we were… together," she phrased it delicately, but he still winced. "You never kissed me. Well, not on the mouth at any rate," she added with a gentle suggestive smile. Irene definitely remembered the feel of his lips in other, more sensitive places, and she felt a slight shiver that had nothing to do with the cool night air.

Sherlock shifted his weight, looking marginally embarrassed but remaining aloof. "I didn't realise it was a requirement. Chalk it up to inexperience," he said dismissively.

Irene gave him a pointed look. "Don't play the fool, Sherlock. It doesn't suit you."

"Doesn't it?" he asked, seriously. "There's quite a lot of evidence to the contrary."

"No there isn't," Irene insisted. Now she locked her gaze onto his. "I will tell you for the last time, whether you respect me enough to believe me or not: I was never manipulating you. You weren't a fool to have feelings for me. And don't try to deny them now," she cut in, seeing him opening his mouth to object. "So why didn't you kiss me?"

Sherlock looked trapped. If he refused to answer the question, he probably knew it would only make her more curious. But she got the sense from his hesitation that his answer would be equally revealing. Finally, after thinking it over a moment, he said, "Well, obviously the drugs have a certain chemical affect on sexual hormones." Irene bit her lip to avoid making a comment he would no doubt classify as a base attempt at seduction. Instead, she merely nodded, and he continued, sounding a bit like his usual, scientific self, "And sex is one thing. But there's a special sort of intimacy associated with kissing. Perhaps it's only culturally specific, but it's still deeply ingrained. Many prostitutes don't kiss their clients. And people obviously kiss in many situations where there's no expectation that it will lead to intercourse." His accurate but dry explanation only added to Irene's suspicion that he'd probably never properly kissed anyone. It didn't mean he was wrong in his conclusions, but it was certainly indicative of his lack of personal experience.

Nevertheless, Sherlock continued, "I've found myself kissing Mrs. Hudson on the cheek on a few occasions, for instance, out of exuberance and even appreciation. Parents kiss their children, spouses kiss as a greeting or farewell, and the French kiss absolutely everyone," he grumbled in annoyance, and Irene couldn't help but laugh. Sherlock gave her a guarded look, then went on. "From what I've observed, it seems to be used as a means of communication in our culture. And it nearly always conveys a mutual affection between people."

Now Irene sobered. "And you didn't think that existed between us?"

Sherlock stared at her openly for the first time all night. Tightly he said, "You never kissed me, either."

Irene's normally proud and composed face fell, and she felt the weight of painful realisation settling on her like a tonne of lead. No, she hadn't kissed him, and she could have. She swallowed, uncomfortable now with having the light of inquiry shone on her. It was just a fraction of the pressure she'd been putting on Sherlock, but she was nearly as uncomfortable with such examinations as he was. Now she found herself mildly regretful that she'd asked him things like this. Because frankly she didn't know how to answer that. She hadn't even really thought about it. And now that she was considering it, Irene could only think of one honest reason for her hesitancy on this point. "I suppose," Irene began, looking Sherlock in the eye because she knew she owed him that much, "I was afraid of that sort of communication. Just as I suspect you were. Affection isn't something that comes naturally to either of us. But I never thought about you taking that as a rejection."

Sherlock pursed his lips a moment. "Well that, along with the way you refused my attempt to … bring you pleasure in an unselfish manner." He swallowed uncomfortably, then let out a small sigh. "Well, what was I supposed to conclude from that?"

Irene did her best to approach that topic sensitively. "_That_ was only because I wanted to show you that I _wasn't_ using you merely for my own pleasure. I didn't want to enjoy myself while you were suffering so much. I wanted you to know we were in it together."

His eyes bored into hers as he asked quietly, "And what about now?"

"I've told you how I feel," Irene replied anxiously, feeling her flight instinct starting to kick in. She didn't know why she was so damned worried about letting Sherlock see what was in her heart. God knew she'd seen enough of his secret feelings, fears, and demons. It was only fair. But that didn't make such a revelation any less terrifying to her.

But Sherlock wasn't relenting. She could tell that he'd seized on an idea, set his focus on this now. And that intense, razor sharp clarity of mind was absolutely the most attractive thing about him. It had never ceased to set her heart racing. It certainly didn't disappoint now, as Irene felt her pulse beginning to pound faster, her breath becoming shallow. Sherlock leaned down just a little as he said, "You've danced around it. Used words like 'interested'. And frankly this is precisely the sort of thing that's made me doubt you in the past." He paused, taking a deep breath, seemingly for courage, and Irene could see just how difficult this was, just how desperately he wanted to believe her. Swallowing, Sherlock finally declared, "I want to know, in no uncertain terms, how you feel. However it may be."

"In no uncertain terms?" Irene asked, her voice nearly a whisper.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, his own voice faltering, his pupils dilated, his breathing shaky. He wasn't leaning in. He was genuinely remaining as stoic as he physically could, waiting for her answer. Wrapping up everything that had ever happened between them and setting it squarely in Irene's hands. But what could she possibly say? She had only one honest response.

Wrapping a hand around the back of Sherlock's neck and pulling firmly but slowly, Irene drew his face down to hers, let her eyes flutter closed, and pressed her lips to his.

Sherlock froze, not seeming to know what to do. He was holding his breath, and for a second Irene worried he might push her away. Then he relaxed marginally, as if forcing himself to. Irene parted their lips a little as she kissed him slowly, deliberately, trying to pack in all of the things she'd been far too prideful to put into words. Sherlock remained passive, almost contemplative for a bit. Then, seeming to accept what she was communicating, he drew a deep breath through his nose, placed a hand at the small of her back, and drew her closer to him as he began kissing her slowly but ardently. It obviously wasn't skilled, but that hardly mattered. It was more about the message than the sensation. They went on like that for a long while, their hands around each other's backs and necks, but their lips pressing together more than their bodies.

Finally, Irene pulled away slowly and gently. Sherlock kept his face there, inches from hers, breathing deeply. He swallowed, his lips remaining slightly parted, his fascinated gaze never leaving her face. A smile tugged at Irene's lips. "Have I finally been clear enough with you, Sherlock?"

In answer, Sherlock's eyes flicked to the large, bowl-like wicker couch a few feet away. There were still a few people scattered about the deck, but the couch had a sun visor over it as well, providing a bit of privacy. Irene certainly didn't care about that, but wagered Sherlock probably did. Nodding in silent agreement, she took his hand and they sat down next to one another.

It was less than a second before he pressed his lips to hers, surprising her by almost immediately parting their mouths and slipping his tongue past. _Perhaps we should have communicated like this all along, _she thought wryly, happily reciprocating his action. In spite of his novice, Sherlock did at least seem to be better at this expression of feelings than at vocalising them. Miles better. While her hands wrapped around his shoulders, his had instinctively gone to her waist. As he deepened the kiss, he pulled her towards him, grasping at the waistband of her skirt for purchase like a drowning man grabbing for a life raft.

When the angle became a bit uncomfortable, Irene pulled away. But she gave Sherlock a grin to let him know she wasn't stopping altogether. Instead, she swept one leg over him and situated herself so that she was now straddling his lap, gazing down into his startled eyes. Sherlock swallowed hard, and this close she could see the pulse in his neck raging. She was sure it was obvious in hers, too. Running her hands slowly through his thick, wavy hair, Irene dragged his face up to hers, dipping her head and surprising him by forcefully pressing her tongue now into his mouth. Her legs tightened instinctively on either side of him, and he groaned, sliding his hands just under the edges of the bunched up skirt at her knees.

Irene chuckled softly into his mouth and let her hands slide down to his chest, nails grazing ever so softly through the fabric of his shirt. Then she raked them more strongly across his back, and he gripped her thighs tightly in response. Now she began subconsciously rocking against him in time with their increasingly forceful kisses. They settled into a dazed, hungry rhythm, and everything else in the world seemed to drift away, taking all the pain between them with it.

A loud coughing finally broke the spell, and it was Irene who pulled away, realising the sound was coming from someone standing near them. Sherlock seemed for once completely unaware of his surroundings. He opened his eyes, blinking slowly as if waking up. Turning to look at the source of the cough, Irene saw a young male hotel staff member standing an awkward distance away, but clearly trying to address them. When she looked at him, he shifted uncomfortably. "Apologies, miss… one of the guests complained…" he looked as if he'd rather be anywhere else right then. Irene decided to let the poor boy off the hook.

Chuckling as if embarrassed, she rolled off of a dazed Sherlock and sat beside him. "Goodness. I suppose we got a bit carried away, honey," she said, taking Sherlock's hand and giving him a coy smile. She pressed her free hand to her throat face. To the young man she said apologetically, "Honeymoon, you know…"

"Of course," he replied quickly, clearly afraid to put her off. "It's only-"

"Oh, we understand perfectly," she interrupted, putting on her sweetest smile. "We'll behave ourselves."

"Thank you," the staff member said with a nod, evidently satisfied enough that Irene was no longer on top of Sherlock. The boy hustled away, looking grateful to do so.

When she was sure the young man was out of earshot, Irene looked over at Sherlock. "Did I embarrass you?" she asked.

But Sherlock didn't answer. He was staring at her with the most longing expression she'd ever seen, and desire was her business. But this was more than simply sexual. She'd nearly call it worshipful. She became aware that Sherlock was still holding her hand when he squeezed it tightly and looked at her openly, almost vulnerably. He swallowed slowly and took a few shaky breaths before he said, in something between a question and a plea, "Come to my room."

For once in her prideful, complicated life, Irene didn't hesitate. She leaned in and pressed her lips to his firmly, taking him off guard with the brief but heartfelt gesture. Drawing her head back and locking her eyes on his she breathed thankfully, "Absolutely."

Neither of them needed to think twice before standing and heading deliberately back in the direction of Sherlock's room, their hands still tightly entwined.


	9. 5: One for the Road, chapter 3

**Note: **This chapter is very M, which shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone ;)

Happy 4th of July Americans. To the Brits, happy 'we're rid of America!' day :p As for the French, wait 10 days and you get to have a party of your own anyhow.

* * *

**5: One for the Road  
**(3/6)

The way Sherlock was holding her hand and kept glancing over at her as they made their way back to his room, Irene half expected him to go shy on her once inside. But the second he closed the door behind them, Sherlock used their intertwined fingers to stop her going any further. His free hand went up to cradle her neck and he began kissing her in earnest, but tenderly and even a bit tentatively. It was only a few seconds more before they'd both dropped the hand-holding. Her newly freed hand went to his shirt, pulling him towards her as she simultaneously untucked it. His went under her shirt and onto her back, and she revelled in the sensation of his long fingers splayed out on her warm skin. Irene was unused to being in an intimate scenario with a male body, all angles and hard planes. But Sherlock at least had the delicate touch of a musician or a surgeon. And the rest didn't seem half so strange because it was _him_. He wasn't "a man"; he was Sherlock.

Sherlock broke the intense kiss just long enough to practically rip her tank top off. One hand returned to her back whilst the other ghosted over her ribcage, caressing the skin just below her bra, causing Irene to gasp quietly. Fortunately this arrangement left both of her hands free, and she gave Sherlock's shirt-front another tug as she began stepping backwards, urging him to walk with her as if following her lead in a dance. As they moved into the room, still kissing deeply and him still caressing her, Irene quickly undid the buttons of his shirt. A moment later, their progress into the room was jolted to a stop as Irene backed into the high office desk across from the bed. Their faces were pulled apart, and Sherlock looked to have been thrown out of the tender moment just a bit.

Tenderness was fantastic and all, but Irene felt they had established enough of an understanding of the feelings between them that a touch of good old fashioned seduction would no longer be misread. Smiling coyly, she moved them around to the other side of the desk, stood on her toes, and slid herself up onto the edge of the desk. She let her shoes drop slowly off her feet and let her toes dangle a few inches from the ground. Now she was closer to Sherlock's height, giving her perfect access to his neck. As she leaned in to kiss the sensitive flesh along the side of his neck, Irene lifted her right leg and trailed it sensuously up the back of his calf. Sherlock gave a soft moan. Encouraged, she slowly drew her leg up higher as she dragged her nails teasingly down his bare chest. She timed her hands reaching his belt with her leg hooking around his waist, and used both to pull him flush against her.

When his hips connected with hers, Sherlock gasped and put his hands down heavily on either side of her for support, his head falling alongside hers. Even through the layers of clothing, Irene could feel his arousal growing. Moving her lips to his ear, she whispered, "Not having the same problem as before, are we?" He shuddered and slid both his shaky hands up her back. As much as she loved seeing him overwhelmed, she didn't want him to overcorrect and get _too _eager just yet. So she loosened the grip of her leg and shifted back fractionally to put some space between them. She could still feel the heat radiating off him, but at least the friction would be reduced.

Sherlock lifted his head and finally looked at her again. His pupils were blown wide, but his expression somehow maintained most of its usual calm. He narrowed his eyes and let out a thoughtful "hmm" as he studied her as if she were a crime scene he was attempting to mentally catalogue, sweeping his eyes down over her. Irene felt a thrill run through her. One of the things she had always found most alluring about Sherlock was his intensity. She'd been dying to see how that might play out in the bedroom. And she was more than happy to give him the chance to let his curiosity lead them. But now there was an additional, deeper, more terrifying aspect to this interplay between them as well. Instead of worrying her, though, Irene found the thought of their mutual feelings only adding to the quickening of her pulse.

After a few moments study, Sherlock dipped his head to her left shoulder, took the strap of her bra in his teeth, and slowly dragged it off her shoulder. Then he went back to her exposed clavicle and sucked hard on the sensitive flesh there. Irene moaned as her skin broke out in goosebumps. Pulling his head back, Sherlock looked at her. "Hmm, interesting," he mused in a low, rumbling tone that he may or may not have realised was incredibly sexy. He could be annoyingly difficult to read. It was much easier when he physically couldn't help responding to her.

Irene ran the tips of her fingers lightly up the insides of his arms, well aware of how sensitive many people were in this area and wanting to make _him_ shiver a bit this time. But the skin there was bumped and hardened, and Sherlock didn't respond to her touch. Irene felt her stomach sink as she realised all of the injection sites on his arms had desensitized them to such caresses. She had unconsciously stopped moving, and Sherlock drew back to look at her, mildly worried. "It's nothing," Irene said, forcing an alluring smile. He still seemed uncertain. Not missing a beat, she moved her hands over to the dangling edges of his shirt and tugged on them. "I was only thinking that we ought to get this off you."

Accepting that easily and eyeing her desirously, Sherlock straightened just long enough to rapidly throw his shirt off before he reached behind her back and undid her bra. Then he slid it off of her, tossed it aside, and drew their bare chests together. "Better?" he asked breathily.

Irene could feel the pounding of their hearts against each other. "Much," she agreed. In response, Sherlock leaned down and gave her a slow, languorous kiss, his whole head moving in small circles as he eased his tongue in and out of her mouth. Irene felt her body buzzing with pleasure. The man might be awful at interpreting social cues and voicing his feelings, but evidently this was one form of communication he felt comfortable with. At least with her. He didn't seem like much of a tactile person, but then Irene recalled that every time she _had_ touched him in the couple years she'd known him, his response had been immediately noticeable. Perhaps he was a novice but a natural. Or perhaps this was something unique, existing only between Sherlock and Irene.

A small, contented sigh left Irene's lips when she and Sherlock naturally parted. Now that longing, worshipful look was back in his eyes. It made her stomach flip in a way Irene would have previously labelled as embarrassingly juvenile. But hadn't she just been the one telling him that trying to repress sentiment hadn't done them any good? She'd dreamt about this scenario, and not just for the physical pleasure of it. Now that they were here, their shallow, quick breaths mingling together, it was just starting to occur to Irene how real this was. That this was finally, actually happening. In spite of herself, she leaned forward and gave Sherlock a gentle kiss on the cheek. He looked at her in wonderment for a few long moments, his hands idly caressing the edge of her skirt, then swallowed.

"Lie back a bit," he commanded gently, and Irene obeyed, leaning back on her hands, though the shallowness of the desk and proximity of the wall prevented her from going very far. But it didn't seem to be in the way of Sherlock's plan. He'd taken on a slight air of curiosity again as he slowly slid his hands under Irene's skirt, his fingertips moving up her strong legs. When his fingers hooked onto either side of her knickers, his eyes met hers in question. In answer, Irene lifted her hips long enough for him to slide the lacy undergarments out from under her. Then she straightened both legs out as Sherlock stepped back and slowly eased the garment off, tossing it aside gently. His eyes stayed locked on hers as he eased himself between her legs, which she instinctively wrapped around his waist as he drew near again.

Irene realised her mouth had gone dry, and could feel her pulse pounding below. Then, with a slow pace that could only have been deliberately teasing, Sherlock placed his left hand on the small of her back and eased his right hand up the length of her thigh. Irene realised the wisdom in his supporting her back and had just enough presence of mind to push her arms off the desk and wrap them around his neck just before his hand made contact with her most sensitive flesh.

"_Oh_!" Irene exclaimed, inhaling sharply, very glad for her grip on him as she tensed involuntarily. Her nails dug into the skin just in back of his neck. Sherlock looked a combination of curious and satisfied as he began to slowly caress her, moving those delicate musician's fingers around in a circular motion. Irene bit her lip and let out a long moan, closing her eyes as her breathing sped up and her vision blurred a little.

"Where?" Sherlock whispered, leaning his forehead against hers.

As aroused as she had quickly become, Irene still had a remarkable talent for keeping her head. And fortunately this was a part of her body she knew very well. "Left," she breathed, and Sherlock's fingers followed the command obediently. He had a look of supreme concentration on his face that was so alluring Irene thought she might come undone already. But not quite, so she continued, "And down a little, _oh, there, there._" The last words came out almost as a pant, and Irene's abdominal muscles contracted at the touch. Her eyes flew shut and her head turned to the side of its own will. Her pulse was going wild and her breathing was erratic. Sherlock stroked the spot slowly, and Irene clenched her jaw in the rapt anticipation of the motions becoming more intense.

So when Sherlock's hand suddenly drew away entirely, Irene's eyes flew open in shock. She dug her nails angrily into Sherlock's back and snapped in a low voice, "What are you doing?"

Sherlock gave her a calm, genuinely confused look. "I needed to make some observations," he explained plainly.

Irene glowered at him in disbelief. _All right, clearly still massively ignorant in some areas, _she thought. Still, a part of her thought he might be a bit more aware than he was letting on. Either way, Sherlock was clearly becoming too cerebral about all of this. Fortunately, there was one sure-fire way to remove the blood from any man's brain. Irene's expert skills kicked in as she reached down, unbuckled his belt, practically ripped it from the loops, undid the button of his trousers, shot her hand down under his pants and grabbed hold of him firmly.

To Irene's immense satisfaction, Sherlock didn't seem to have seen that coming one bit, and in fact let out the most delicious throaty groan of surprise as he had to grip the edges of the desk to keep himself upright. He had already been half hard, but that was quickly changing. "Hmm, I believe I could make some interesting observations of my own," Irene mused casually as she began stroking him.

"Oh God," Sherlock managed to breathe out. His body was shaking, his forehead breaking out in a sweat, and his skin was flushing in a positively delicious manner. He groaned, a guttural sound that made Irene's own body thrum with excitement.

"You know, Mr. Holmes," Irene hummed playfully, even as her own breathing remained ragged. "I think I feel an elevated pulse."

"I… oh God I… Irene," Sherlock stammered. Hearing her name on his lips made her smile knowingly. But it was suddenly erased when Sherlock's right hand snapped over from its place on the desk to grab her wrist and pull her hand up out of his trousers. Irene was about to comment when he added, shakily, "I don't think that's a good idea." He swallowed, visibly warring with his own blood and hormones. Dropping her wrist, he took a few deep breaths, then gave Irene a pointed look. "What I mean to say is, I'd like to avoid having the precise opposite problem as last time."

_Oh, right_. Somehow in the haze brought on by the deadly combination of lust and sentiment, Irene had more or less forgotten that Sherlock hadn't done this before. And not that he was an out of control teenager or anything, but it was a fair point that his staying power might not be terribly great just yet. Irene was sharply reminded of all the humiliation she'd already put him through. So instead of berating him further, she moved her hand up to the back of his neck. "Then we ought to get down to business, oughtn't we?" she said with a smile.

Sherlock kissed her briefly before pulling back, a look of concern suddenly passing over his features, even as he kept breathing hard. "Ah," he started uncertainly, "Only I've realised… do we need a condom?"

It was such a practical question in the midst of this dreamlike state that it threw Irene for a moment. Because evidently he hadn't thought of that, and neither had she. Looking up at him and shaking her head, she said, "I don't have one. I don't have sex with men normally… I don't suppose you have any?"

"I don't have sex with anyone," Sherlock pointed out.

"Right," Irene replied, chewing on her lip thoughtfully. Both of them had slid their hands to the other's waist, and now she couldn't help but feel they were in the awkward posture of nervous teenagers at a dance. Attempting to think clearly in spite of her thudding heart and pleasure-addled mind, Irene said, "But I can't see why we need one. I use birth control to help my cycle, and you may be surprised to hear I've never had any sort of STD."

Sherlock shook his head. "Not in the least," he assured her. "You may work in a sex trade, but that hardly means you're careless. I assumed quite the opposite."

"And," Irene pointed out matter-of-factly, "obviously you've not been exposed to anything." Sherlock nodded, but even as he did, Irene was hit with a realisation that caused her face to fall slightly. Which naturally was enough for Sherlock to notice.

"What is it?" he inquired curiously.

Irene drew a deep breath, knowing she needed to ask this but wishing very much for his sake that she didn't. "And there's no chance you've been exposed to any of the blood-borne ones?"

Sherlock looked at her for a few seconds, then glanced down at his track-marked arms in realisation. "Oh," he said, voice still shaky with adrenaline. He looked back up at Irene. "The potential dangers of having sex with an IV drug user," he noted, swallowing hard.

"I'm sorry, perhaps I shouldn't have brought it up," Irene said.

"No, it's perfectly logical. It's your health, after all. The sort of thing the NHS is always trying to make people aware of," Sherlock said, his tone calm and objective in spite of the state of arousal he was in and the very personal nature of this topic. Shifting, he said, "I've never been tested for anything. But I never reuse needles and certainly don't _share_ with anyone…" his lips twisted in disgust.

Irene knew all of this. She'd seen how characteristically fastidious he was about his syringe usage. Still, she had only seen him use this past year. He'd been using since he was at university. Carefully, she asked, "Ever?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Not ever. I've never been a social user in the least," he asserted. After a moment's hesitation, he drew a deep breath and closed his eyes, as if trying very hard to bring himself under his own control again. "The last thing I would want is for you to feel contaminated..." he stammered the word in a quiet, embarrassed way that made Irene feel awful on his behalf. Opening his eyes he said in a business-like manner, "So yes, of course I'll go buy some. Only give me a few moments to settle down."

The last thing she wanted was to give him time to calm down, to let him escape or second guess the important breakthrough they'd finally had together. He started to pull away, but Irene instinctively caught his wrist and shook her head. "No, it's fine," she said.

Sherlock gave her a questioning look. "Are you sure?" he asked, looking like he was quite serious rather than asking a rhetorical question.

Irene pulled him back towards her. "I trust you," she said, and genuinely meant it.

Sherlock considered her carefully for a few moments. Then he clasped his hands to either side of Irene's face and leaned in to kiss her insistently. Yes, this was certainly easier for both of them than trying to _talk_. And oh, this was much nicer all around.

Even that sobering break hadn't calmed Irene's heart and hormones, nor Sherlock's if the front of his half undone trousers now pressed against her knees was any indication. When he finally pulled out of the hungry kiss, Sherlock took a moment to step out of his shoes. Then, without being asked, Irene lifted her hips and let Sherlock slide her skirt off. She was more than glad to be rid of the last of her clothing now. But Sherlock was still entirely too clothed. Irene ran her fingers over his lower abdomen, and was rewarded with his hitched breath and tensing muscles. She looked him steadily in the eyes as she slowly unzipped his trousers then yanked them and his boxers down off his hips. He stepped out of them rapidly. Swallowing, his darkened eyes taking in the image of her perched totally nude on the desk before him, Sherlock looked just about ready to pounce. Or rather, no longer able to keep himself from pouncing. It made her heart hammer and she felt beads of sweat trickling down her back. All she had to do was draw him closer now...

But Irene had seen how Sherlock had fared standing up with just some stimulation. And she'd seen how he was always unable to stand when experiencing the rush of cocaine. Though she hated to draw that parallel now, biologically it seemed indicative that he shouldn't attempt this whilst standing. Not that she would tell Sherlock this part, lest she offend his male pride. Ghosting her hands over the sinewy, bruised muscles of his chest, Irene said lowly, "As much as I'd love to have you right here on this desk, I think we'd both be more comfortable on the bed."

Sherlock didn't need any convincing. To Irene's surprise, he promptly picked her up, turned around, and nearly tossed her onto her back halfway up the bed. As he rapidly crawled on top of her, there was a feral look darkening his eyes. Clearly he was beginning to lose control, and that was just what Irene had hoped for, just what she thought he needed. Complete abandonment. Her, him, and none of the rest. As soon as his face was near hers, she reached up and pulled his lips down savagely against hers. He gave a moan of surprise but didn't seem to mind in the least judging by the way he reciprocated. His sweat-slickened body rubbed against her with every kiss, and Irene felt like her skin was igniting from the friction and pleasant weight on top of her.

As they kissed and bit at each other's lips, she could feel him hard against her lower abdomen, and was surprised at the chill the sensation sent through her. She supposed sexual preference was indeed a fluid thing. When Sherlock finally pulled back, and Irene was able to gasp for breath, she found herself immediately missing the warmth of his chest against hers. Fortunately, Sherlock didn't seem keen to take much of a break for something so prosaic as breathing. He lowered his head to her neck and kissed the spots that had made her gasp before, with the same result. It occurred to Irene, in the back of her mind, that this deliberate sort of action was quite different from the frantic rush and clawing that had occurred the last time they were in bed together. Part of her was glad that hadn't worked out, in a way. A sober Sherlock was better for both of them: sharp, intense, and able to take in every sensation with relish. _Much better than losing your virginity in a drugged haze,_ Irene concluded.

Sherlock wasn't content to stay at her neck, and quickly kissed a trail down to her breasts. The gentle sensation caused the fine hairs on Irene's arms to stand up. By the time he got to her nipple, it was hardened and sensitive. She gasped at the feel of his lips and tongue there, as his free right hand groped at her other breast. There was something in Sherlock's combination of deliberate intuition and lack of control that Irene found maddeningly arousing. She found herself squirming beneath him and digging her fingernails into the muscles of his shoulders, avoiding the bandaged area. Sherlock experimentally licked then ran his tongue from her breasts down to her navel, provoking a shiver from Irene. In a way, the fact that he wasn't practiced at this made it even better. Because he seemed utterly fascinated by her reactions rather than narrowly focused on getting down to business.

Still, between her own waves of light-headedness and wordless exclamations, Irene could hear the longing panting coming from Sherlock. And she could feel him trembling with the strain of resisting his own arousal. Swallowing to compose herself a little, she grabbed Sherlock by his sides and dragged him back up towards her face. Nibbling on his earlobe, she whispered, "How are you holding up?"

The way he tensed up just at this sensation was all the reply she needed, really. But when he pulled back enough to look at her, the dark look in his eyes and the way his mouth was slightly parted, hair growing damp with sweat, told her even more. Not to mention the rumbling, raspy quality of his voice as he ventured, "I think I'm all right."

Irene raised an eyebrow. "You don't look it," she said, surprised at how breathless her own voice sounded. In an honest assessment, he evidently wasn't the only one aching to get on with things. In spite of her recent unfamiliarity with having sex with men, Irene found herself well ready to do so with Sherlock. Perhaps the uniqueness was part of what made it unusually thrilling. And there were those serious, deeper possible causes as well, the ones she still wasn't entirely used to.

"Go on," she said, giving him a hungrily suggestive look and wrapping her legs around his low back, pulling him close as she ran a toe down his spine. Sherlock trembled, his eyes screwing tightly shut for a moment. When he opened them, he gave her a questioning, almost pleading look. Instead of voicing her desire, Irene slid a hand all the way down his sweat-slicked chest and helped slowly guide him in.

His breathing stopped for a moment, and he stared down at her in open admiration tinged with a slight amount of fear. Then, most likely being hit with a massive adrenaline and testosterone rush from the new sensation, Sherlock practically growled and grabbed her wrists, drawing her arms up above her head on the mattress, and began rolling his hips. After a few slow thrusts he released her wrists, instead grasping at her waist as he leaned down and bit at her neck hungrily. She gasped, and he muttered what might have been an expletive. Mostly he was groaning and gasping incoherently against her skin as he thrust steadily. This physical contact wasn't quite the arousing trigger that Irene was used to, but seeing Sherlock unravelling certainly sent a shudder of pleasure through her.

As if reading her mind, Sherlock slowed momentarily, pushing himself up on his left elbow and looking at her from inches away. It seemed to take great effort, judging by the way he bit his lip and breathed heavily through his nose, but he seemed determined to pause a moment for something. Then he raked the fingers of his right hand from her neck all the way down her torso and to the point where they were joined. Irene's eyes widened and her throat constricted as his delicate fingers found the exact spot she'd directed him to earlier. "_Yes_," she breathed, biting her lip as he began swirling his fingers around. Irene's muscles contracted sharply, causing him to moan and, it appeared, nearly lose control.

Instead, he showed admirable fortitude for a novice, and resumed the motion of his hips even as he stroked her with his hand. The concentration had caused his eyes to fall shut, and his lips were moving wordlessly. Some soft noises that sounded a bit like English fell from his mouth as he intensified both motions. For her part, Irene rolled her hips and flexed her inner muscles in time with his increasing pace, all the while keeping her eyes fixed on the deliciously undone expression on his face. She'd longed to see him made this vulnerable and uncontrolled by something other than the vile drugs. Now she couldn't take her eyes off the sight.

That is, until his fingers brushed a particularly sensitive spot and she gasped, throwing her head back. The rush of blood warming her below and the fiery sensation in her nerve endings caused her to again contract involuntarily around Sherlock, harder this time. "_Fuck_," he rasped, his hand shaking against her.

Irene could feel herself climbing rapidly towards her peak. Looking at him again, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled herself up to him. "Harder," she growled in his ear, and he responded with both a strangled sound and her requested increase in both his motions.

"Oh God, Sherlock," she half-gasped, half-moaned. Every nerve felt raw, the world was turning to bright spots, and Irene knew she was only a few seconds away. He didn't seem capable of any words, only incoherent sounds that were growing louder. He pounded into her as his fingers rubbed the sensitive spot once more, twice more, then Irene let out a loud cry as her world went white and her muscles clenched and quivered.

Evidently Sherlock had been barely holding himself at bay, because the sensation was enough to send him over the edge, too. All of his muscles stiffened and he made the loudest sound Irene had ever heard from the composed detective. She had just enough presence of mind left to latch her mouth to his and stifle his shout with a kiss. He seemed incapable of any thought or movement, but Irene felt an overwhelming need to have as much contact with him as possible as they rode out the rest of their respective orgasms.

Finally, Sherlock collapsed on top of Irene just as her own muscles went limp and heavy. It seemed to take every drop of energy he had remaining to slide out of her and roll off to her left side. Irene drew a few deep breaths before rolling to her side and propping herself up on her left elbow. She draped a leg over Sherlock's nearest one, unconsciously rubbing her foot up and down his shin. Sherlock wasn't in a state to notice much. He was breathing like a man who'd just finished an Olympic sprint, his pulse beating visibly in his neck. What areas of his chest that weren't dark with bruises were flushed red with pleasure. Irene brushed the damp hair away from her own face and gently set her right hand on his far hip, feeling an urge to maintain as much contact with him as possible. "Do you feel different?" she asked breathlessly, giving him a coy smile.

Sherlock was still staring at the ceiling, blinking as if focused sight hadn't quite returned for him yet. "Diff…different?" he asked, needing to catch his breath every second or so and not able to speak very well. Of course, that didn't stop him trying. "No, in … principle virginity is… it's merely a… social construct." He wiped the sweat from his brow with one abnormally shaky hand. "In terms of… physiology," he said, breathing a little slower now and actually turning his eyes towards her. "There's no real scientific distinction at all."

Irene had to bite her lip to keep from smiling or laughing, though her eyes lit up all the same. She was simply amazed at how Sherlock seemed capable of fitting everything into a logical viewpoint. It was so bizarrely alluring that she would have shagged him again right then if she could. As it was, she was spent both physically and emotionally, and Sherlock had to be on the verge of passing out by the looks of things. "Fair enough. But," Irene said, giving him a significant look, "how did it feel in the more traditional sense?"

"It felt wonderful," he acknowledged. "Almost like…" whatever he was about to say died immediately on his lips, and a small shadow passed over his features. But he looked to the ceiling a moment and whatever he had been thinking seemed to be quickly washed away in the tide of pleasurable hormones rushing through his body. "Yes. Wonderful. Indescribable." He looked back over at her lazily. "I hope it was all right for you."

"Oh, you did amazingly," Irene replied honestly. In fact, the unfamiliar sensation a man was able to bring about combined with the more usual stimulation externally had been remarkably pleasurable. Though she would almost say that, curiously, the most captivating part of the whole thing had been Sherlock. Just… Sherlock. She swallowed, fidgeting a little at the uncomfortable mental sensation the reflection brought on. It was almost as if her body were feeding her extra doses of contentment in addition to what was usual. Frankly, she was starting to feel a bit ridiculous, and got back to the sort of thing she was more comfortable with. "That was quite a trick you employed," she drawled, smiling and raising an eyebrow at him in question.

"Oh, that," he said with a tired shrug. At some point, his right hand had snaked under her arm and had started to draw circles between her shoulder blades in an unconscious imitation of his hand's earlier motion. "I was fairly certain that without a built up tolerance, in addition to my overall fatigue, I might not be able to last terribly long." Actually, he'd made it a bit farther than she might have guessed due to his extraordinary willpower, but generally speaking he was right about not having practiced endurance. Sherlock continued musing, "And I'm aware that many women require additional stimulation anyway. So I wanted to make sure you enjoyed yourself. Hence my earlier experimentation to ensure I was on the right path."

"Sounds like you've thought that through pretty thoroughly in advance." Irene leered at him knowingly, and he looked a bit frightened at her expression. "Sherlock Holmes," she said with a soft chuckle, "have you been _fantasising_ about me?"

His brow furrowed and he countered indignantly, "Hypothesising."

Now Irene laughed loudly, then gave him a faux serious look and a nod. "Naturally," she agreed. Then she added, genuinely, "Well it was thoughtful of you."

He narrowed his eyes. "Are you making fun of me?"

"Not this time," she replied with a soft smile. "Sincerely, that seemed to take a good deal of concentration and effort, and all for someone else's sake." In fact, she'd have thought Sherlock – always the supreme pragmatist and a bit prone to narcissism – wouldn't ordinarily be someone to be that thoughtful and giving. He _had_ faked his own death and put himself through hell, but that was only for some remarkably special people in his life.

_And what do you think you are? _As soon as she thought that, Irene felt herself freezing. She wasn't certain where that had come from, but what was more worrying was that she couldn't convincingly disagree. But the thought that she might be in the same category as the only three friends Sherlock seemed to have ever had was mildly terrifying. But then, she was now his only lover, and probably deserving of a special place of her own in his mind and heart. She smiled and added easily, "All I mean is that most men don't give their partners' pleasure a second thought."

"Am I most men?" he challenged, seeming offended at the thought of being ordinary.

"No," Irene said, leaning in and kissing him gently on the lips. "That's the last thing you'll ever need to worry about being." His expression shifted as he stared up at her, and she could imagine him considering her words, her tone, her posture, her pulse. She was sure none of it escaped his notice. Feeling both skittish and tired, Irene tucked her left arm beneath her and lowered her head into the crook of Sherlock's shoulder. Her right hand settled naturally against his chest. The night air was cool, but their bodies were still warm, and warmer yet beside one another.

Neither of them said anything else, and in a few minutes they were both sleeping peacefully.


	10. 5: One for the Road, chapter 4

**5: One for the Road  
**(4/6)

When Irene awakened, she blinked slowly in confusion. It was still night, and by all rights she shouldn't be up yet. After all, she'd fallen asleep pleasantly exhausted. But it only took her a few minutes of wakefulness to realise what had pulled her out of her peaceful sleep.

The light in the bizarrely glass-walled bathroom was on, making her feel like she was watching a fishtank. Inside the little room, Sherlock was partially obscured behind the tub, crouched on the tile floor and retching into the toilet. As Irene's eyes focused better, she could see his bony arms grasping the top of the tank, his knuckles white with tension. She was aware that cocaine withdrawal was more devastatingly psychological than physical, but her research also showed that some people were made physically ill by it as well. Evidently Sherlock was one of those lucky few. And he'd only been off the stuff for perhaps 12 hours.

Her instinct was to go comfort him, and that worried her. She was no nurse, and really as far from gentle and supportive as one could be. But just the fact that she _wanted_ to ease Sherlock's physical and psychological pain gave her pause. From the dark of the bed, Irene watched achingly as Sherlock slowly flushed the toilet and pulled himself to his feet. He'd slipped his boxers back on but was still shivering a little against the cool night air and the sweat covering his body. Slowly, as if it took all of his strength, he stood before the sink and ran some water over his face. He spat, then grabbed his toothbrush and toothpaste absently brushed his teeth for several minutes. Finally, Sherlock set the toothbrush aside, leaned on the edge of the sink, and looked up at himself in the mirror.

Irene could see a whole host of anxieties, pains, and shameful regrets pass over Sherlock's face. The now livid bruises on his chest and the dressings covering gashes here and there reminded her that, in addition to everything that had happened between them and tossing out the last of his cocaine, Sherlock had killed a man yesterday. A very dangerous man. And now the great detective stood there looking wretched, thin, battered, sickly, and lost. This was a far cry from Irene's long nurtured fantasies of Sherlock Holmes.

And she'd never wanted him more.

Not just for sex, though that was certainly part of it. But she wanted _him:_ his mind, his body, and his heart all at once. This was dangerously close to the notion of 'making love' to someone. Irene's heart sped up at the realisation, though whether in panic or excitement she didn't know. She could only do her best to keep her breathing deep and shallow so as not to give herself away.

Sherlock looked just barely capable of making the journey back to bed right now. He flicked off the bathroom light, plunging the room into darkness. Even so, Irene closed her eyes, worried that he'd see she was awake and knowing how mortified he'd be at her seeing him like this now. She didn't know what she would say to him anyway. So instead she lay there, anticipating him flopping down heavily beside her. She could hear his feet plodding back heavily in her direction.

So she was surprised when she felt a soft blanket, one of the extras from the room's closet, being draped over her body. They'd fallen asleep on top of the covers, quite warm enough at the time not to need a blanket. But now the cool night air of the Mediterranean had made things a bit chilly. And the blanket was comforting for more than just protection against the weather.

The bed dipped as Sherlock lay back down beside Irene, inches away in the direction she was facing but couldn't open her eyes to look at. But she could hear his uneven breathing, could feel him laying the other half of the blanket on top of himself. And when she let out a contented sigh like someone might when they were asleep, shifted closer to him, and threw her hand onto his sweat-slicked chest as if absently grasping at something in her dreams, Irene could feel his pulse pounding in time with hers.

* * *

The next time Irene awoke was much more pleasant. Her right arm and leg were still draped over Sherlock, but in the night he'd rolled a little in her direction. His left arm was snaked lazily around her back. Though his body was slick with cold sweat, he at least seemed to have been able to fall asleep soundly at some point. The west-facing room meant it was late morning, half past ten, when she finally stirred. Irene blinked at the clock to make sure that was right. Blimey, she'd slept nearly 11 hours. Normally she wasn't much for sleeping the day away. But as she gazed at Sherlock's resting features, Irene decided it would be all right to make an exception this once. She let her eyes fall shut and scooted a bit closer to him.

It was twenty more minutes before Sherlock began to stir. Irene opened her eyes and, to the horror of a certain part of her, watched Sherlock quietly as he sighed, swallowed, and blinked his eyes open. For a few moments, he looked downright shocked to see Irene staring back at him. The arm he had draped around her drew back, as if he were uncertain it belonged where it was. Fearing a full on morning after panic, Irene tightened her grip on his side, pulled herself closer to him, and gave him a firm kiss. After a moment, he kissed her back for a second, seeming to get the message. His body relaxed, and when he opened his eyes again, Sherlock looked less like a deer in the headlights. Still, he seemed weary, his skin slightly sallow. Irene hadn't forgotten what she's seen in the middle of the night, but part of her had hoped it had only been a bad dream. She was sure Sherlock wished many things that had happened when he visited her were only dreams. Sherlock gazed at her a moment with a passive expression on his face but an increasingly uneasy look in his grey-green eyes.

Letting out a long sigh, Sherlock rolled onto his back and ran a hand across his forehead. He grimaced, no doubt at the grimy sweat there, and wiped his hand on the sheets. Irene realised the sheets around Sherlock weren't going to be much use in drying his hand since they were wet with his cold perspiration. He seemed to realise this at the same moment she did, and rapidly sat up, scooting a foot away from her. Irene frowned as she too sat. "Dammit," he muttered, drawing a few long breaths. Then, glancing over at Irene, he said apologetically, "I've made this a rather unsuitable place for sleeping."

"Really? Because I slept the best I have in months. Perhaps years," Irene said, keeping her tone light but very much meaning what she said.

Sherlock still seemed focused on the damp sheets. "I didn't realise I was sweating so much." There was a beat, as if he were searching for the right thing to say. Finally he settled for a flat, "I'm sorry."

"I think we were both sweating quite a bit, actually," Irene said with a sly smile.

Sherlock shook his head. "It's not from that," he replied, screwing his eyes shut in frustration.

No, Irene knew precisely what it was from. She'd simply hoped they might be able to have a normal, peaceful lie-in. But she might have known that was impossible. Especially after the way she'd seen him in the middle of the night. Irene's expression and tone shifted to hesitant sobriety. "Withdrawal?" His eyes darted to hers for a second, worried. As if she hadn't already seen him in every possible horrible state the cocaine could put him in. Sherlock looked away and nodded. Knowing him, if he were willing to admit any symptoms at all, the reality must be far worse. She thought back to what she'd both read and seen of the mental withdrawal he must be going through. Anxiety and deep depression were common, not to mention irritability. She'd certainly seen enough glimpses of that when he'd been between hits to approach him with caution now. Irene shifted on the bed so that she was leaning on the headboard and facing Sherlock. "I'm sorry," she said delicately.

"I'll get over it eventually," Sherlock said, determination edging into his voice.

She desperately hoped he would. After all, he'd got clean before. And that was without John's support, which he was sure to have this time. Still, the sight of him now drove the point home that Sherlock had a very long way to go. Still, she was determined to focus on the present. "I know you will. But 'eventually' doesn't help much now, does it?" Irene lightly raised an eyebrow at him and laid her right hand lightly on his knee. "I can think of quite a few ways to distract you and make you feel _much_ better," she said, giving him a mischievous look that would have brought many men to their knees.

"What, substitute one drug for another?" he replied quietly.

Irene's hand slid off his leg, almost of its own volition. She felt a bit like she'd been slapped. She might have been angry at someone else saying that, might have found a way to lash out in a painfully targeted manner. But she knew Sherlock, and knew he didn't mean it as an insult to her. It said more about his own state of mind. So instead, after she collected herself, she mostly just felt sympathy tinged with uncertainty. "Is that what sleeping with me was to you? A drug?" she asked.

"If you mean was I 'using' you, then no," Sherlock replied, then looked away. "But physically, it certainly felt similar," he said. He sounded downright miserable as he added, "Though I'm not sure it was quite as intense as the cocaine."

Irene looked down a moment. "I can see how it might seem that way, from a purely biological point of view. They do both trigger a lot of the same chemicals in the brain," she reasoned, looking back at him. He kept his gaze on the blanket still draped partway over them. "It's an awful association for you to deal with. Still, you seemed to very much enjoy yourself last night. And without relying on something that you know could kill you. Doesn't that count for something?" What was more, there had been moments of genuine vulnerability and sentiment even. But she didn't want to bring that up just now, for fear of spooking him.

"I did and it does," Sherlock acknowledged. "But it doesn't change the fact that it feels a bit like trading one intoxicating lure for another." Now he finally turned and faced her. "I've spent nearly all of my adult life with one continuous, steady relationship. And that's with the cocaine. I don't know anything else."

Irene swallowed, taking that in. "So this is a dalliance then. I'm your mistress, but at the end of the day you'll go back to your wife. That's what you're worried about?"

Sherlock nodded curtly. "I wouldn't have put it that way, but along those lines, yes."

"But you're wrong, Sherlock. I know it's the absolute worst thing someone could say to you about anything, but in this case I happen to be the expert, not you," Irene said firmly. Sherlock didn't even bother trying to argue that, which made Irene much more worried for his current state than night sweats did. Still, she pressed on. "Your brain reacts the same way to any number of pleasures. Hormones can be misleading. But _this_," she motioned between them, "this thing with us, that's not a drug. Nor is it an illusion. It would never have sustained itself for so long and through so many awful things if it were." Irene put her hand back on Sherlock's knee and drew a little closer to him, looking him in the eye as she said softly, "And one other difference: if cocaine is your lover, it's an abusive, controlling, utterly selfish one. It will never love you back."

Silence fell over the room as Sherlock froze and Irene's own eyes widened for a split-second, realising what she'd said. She hadn't meant to say that last part. The whole slew of implications from that statement ran through Irene's head as Sherlock's intense eyes flicked back and forth across Irene's face, trying desperately to read the panicked expression there. He was suddenly tense and anxious and very much alert, pulled out of his cocaine crash lethargy for a moment. And why shouldn't he be? She'd practically just told him that she loved him. God, just _thinking_ that word was terrifying enough. Irene definitely hadn't been planning on using it out loud. Fortunately Sherlock was starting to look as panicked about it as she was. Warning bells were going off in her carefully walled off and secured mind.

Some still functioning part of her brain caused her to pull away from him, getting out of bed. It also kept her tone remarkably casual as she strode across the room and into the restroom. "In any case, I think the best thing for you mentally, physically, and hygienically at the moment would be to set all of this aside and have a nice bath," she said over her shoulder.

As Irene put on a dressing gown hanging on the towel rack, she watched Sherlock's reaction through the glass walls. It took him a moment to process what she'd said. When he had, he scowled deeply. "A _bath? _Why?" he asked, as if she'd suggested doing something truly awful like filing tax forms or having children.

Irene walked casually back into the bedroom, moving immediately over to the large soaker tub. It gave her something to do and a convenient excuse to avoid looking at Sherlock. She was fairly certain now that she was more anxious about what she'd said than he was. She was trying to keep herself occupied, while still venturing quick glances over at Sherlock. Irene plugged the tub and turned on the warm water before replying, "For one thing, you may have cleaned up a bit between the Dead Sea and Tel Aviv, but I'll wager it's been a while since you've had a really proper, long soak." She opened the Dead Sea bath salts left out with the other hotel toiletries and began emptying them into the rising water.

Sherlock fidgeted slightly on the bed. "Oh… If you'd said something I'd have showered again last night before, well…" he looked sheepish, which was something Irene didn't think she'd ever seen from him before. It made her want to jump him. But then, _everything_ he did now seemed to have that affect on her. _Dammit_.

Irene shot him a quick smile to allay his concern as she finished emptying the bath salts into the tub. She had settled down a bit, though she still felt uncomfortable. "It's fine. I'd hardly have wanted to stop for that last night. And you couldn't have known in advance that you'd be hounded by some woman wanting to have sex with you when you got in."

"Not exactly high on my contingency planning list, no," Sherlock conceded. "But I could just take a shower…"

"Why are you in such a rush? Your flight's not until evening. No one's trying to kill you anymore. And you'll be heading back to London and your old life soon," Irene said confidently, even though she had many reservations about that. It still didn't diminish the amazing accomplishment of coming out of this thing alive at all. "If anything deserves a nice, relaxing bath, I'd say this is it."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at that. "I don't like _relaxing_," he grumbled.

"There's a first time for everything, as I think we've proved," Irene said, turning off the water on the now full tub, then heading back to the bed and offering him her hand. "Here, I realise you're probably feeling weak and lethargic. Let me help you up," she offered. Although she'd begun down this path merely as a diversion, looking down at Sherlock's sickly and battered body, Irene softened considerably, realising his muscles actually _could_ use some help. Sherlock looked at her for a long moment before swinging his legs off the bed, taking her hand, and pulling himself up to his feet.

Now they were standing face to face, with Sherlock gazing down at her quietly. It was ridiculous and nearly unprecedented for Irene to feel awkward around someone. And it seemed to make no sense when she'd just had sex with that person the night before. Really, how much closer than that could one get? And yet she remembered what she'd accidentally said earlier, and felt her face growing uncharacteristically warm. Finally, Sherlock cleared his throat and broke the stare. "I can make it over there on my own, you know," he said.

"Yes," Irene said, stepping out of his way. Sherlock trudged across the room to the tub. He started to methodically remove the plasters and other medical dressings he'd applied the day before, tossing them in the bin. Irene silently approached, but stayed a bit at a distance as he finished removing the coverings. He hesitated momentarily, glancing over instinctively before seeming to realise he had nothing to hide from her and removing his boxers. She remained a few feet away as he stepped into the hot water, hissing.

"Is this supposed to soothe my skin or melt it?" he asked, giving her an annoyed look.

_Only you, Sherlock,_ she thought with a mental shake of her head. But her mood was sobered again as she watched how his muscles shivered even as he lowered himself into steaming water. Between whatever obviously vicious up close fight he'd just had with Moran, a year and a half of being on the run, and the beginning of his cocaine withdrawal, his muscles must be taxed beyond reason. And that wasn't even considering the previous night's activities. Irene had an idea, then dismissed it as too sentimental, then resigned herself to it anyway. Looking down at Sherlock, she remarked, "Is it as awful as you feared?"

He narrowed his eyes at her. "It's tolerable," he said.

"It'll be better if you relax," she pointed out.

"Which is incredibly easy to do whilst someone's standing over you telling you how relaxed you should be," he countered dryly.

Irene couldn't help smiling again. "I was going to pop out anyway. Just for a moment. I have to go get something from downstairs," she half explained.

Sherlock was giving her a wary look. "Should I be worried?" behind his usual standoffishness, Irene thought she detected a touch of genuine nervousness. Most likely, he was concerned she wouldn't come back.

Irene approached the free-standing tub and perched herself on one side of it, looking down intently at Sherlock. "I'm not leaving. I promise." There was a beat, then she leaned down instinctively and gave him a gentle kiss. She realised partway through, about the time that Sherlock entangled his wet hands in her hair and parted her lips with his tongue, that she'd been quite right about thinking this was a better way for them to communicate their feelings than talking. Certainly it was less complicated than dancing around certain words or phrases or metaphors. When Irene finally pulled back, coming up for air and to relieve the awkward crook in her back, she saw that a great deal of worry seemed to have melted from Sherlock's features. He even sank down a little further in the water, resting his head against the edge of the tub and closing his eyes for just a second.

"Enjoy your bath. I'll be back in a moment," Irene said. She exchanged one last indefinable look with Sherlock before standing, tightening the tie on her dressing gown, taking a room key off the desk, and heading out the door. She had the presence of mind to hang a 'do not disturb' sign on the door knob before making her way downstairs.


	11. 5: One for the Road, chapter 5

**Note: **I'm sorry this is so late! I was out of town at a friend's wedding this past weekend. And now unfortunately I won't be able to post the final chapter of this until Sunday night or Monday morning because I'm leaving for Comic Con tomorrow.

If I haven't got to your review yet, rest assured that I will once I'm back. I have been reading and appreciating them from my phone, I just haven't been at my computer much. So now, hopefully you enjoy this penultimate chapter.

* * *

**5: One for the Road  
**(5/6)

When Irene returned several minutes later, she was pleased to see that Sherlock seemed to have actually relaxed into his bath. His head was resting on the porcelain edge of the tub and his eyes were closed, his wet hair indicating he'd already washed it. In fact, Irene was half convinced he might be asleep, and set the pile of sheets and the bottle she'd snagged from downstairs as gingerly as she could on the desk. As she moved into the bathroom and turned on the shower, however, she saw Sherlock open his eyes and look over at her lazily. Irene held his gaze, staring from her room to his through the glass walls dividing them. Then, without looking away, she undid the tie of her dressing gown and let it fall to the floor.

Maintaining eye contact, Irene stepped into the shower and let the water cascade over her. As she felt her heart beating harder at the erotic vulnerability of this shower, she decided she _really_ enjoyed the set up of this hotel. Sherlock had sat up a little straighter in the tub, but his expression was one more of concentration than desire. In fact, his evaluative stare was so intense it made Irene mildly nervous, to her great surprise. She turned away from Sherlock, lifting her face towards the shower head as she reached for the shampoo and started lathering up her hair.

Irene kept on with her usual showering, though perhaps she moved a bit more sensuously and slowly knowing that Sherlock was still watching her. She hadn't turned around but could feel his intense gaze nonetheless, as if it were burning through the back of her ribcage and into her chest. But she was immensely practiced at both composure and seduction. When she turned off the shower, Irene wrapped a towel around her hair but left the rest of her body exposed. She met Sherlock's eyes again as she strode slowly, deliberately over to him. She stopped at the foot of his tub, staring down at his silent, focused features. "You're allowed to do more than look, you know," she said in a velvety tone.

Sherlock blinked, as if being pulled from some altered state. "Yes," he said finally.

Irene raised an eyebrow. "Yes you know that or yes you'd like to do more?" she asked, leaning forward and putting her hands on either side of the tub. "You've been ogling for a good fifteen minutes. Would you like me to join you?" she asked, her gaze dark.

"Memorising," he replied incongruously. Irene gave him a confused look. His eyes flicked up to her face. "I was memorising, not _ogling_," he said the word with distaste, as if open desire were beneath him. There might be something to that. Irene felt her heart speed up much more at the thought of him cataloguing and memorising every part of her than it would have at the simple, usual lecherous gaping she got from most people. She knew how meticulous Sherlock was, how pristine his memory, and how valuable the space in his brain. If he wanted to commit her to his files, it was a much greater compliment than simply wanting to have her once more. Irene found her breath had become shallow and anxious under his stare.

Finally Sherlock looked away, breaking the intense moment, and muttered, "Anyway, I don't know that I feel up to much more at the moment."

Irene nodded in understanding, remembering her realisation about his raw physical and emotional state, and resumed her original plan. Standing, she headed back to the bathroom and quietly put on her dressing gown again. Then she moved to the bed and began ripping the sweat-drenched sheets away. From behind her, Sherlock asked, "Don't they have people to do that?"

Irene glanced briefly back over her shoulder at him. "Yes. Shall I tell them to come right in now?" By the look on his face, she knew he acquiesced to her point. Turning back to the bed, she finished removing the sheets and tossed them unceremoniously into the corner of the room. Then she took the clean, folded sheets she'd got from the front desk and set about making the bed once more. "Besides, I _do_ know how to change some bedclothes. I'm quite an accomplished woman." Once she was done, she went back to the bathroom and grabbed a large, fluffy towel from off the rack. She approached Sherlock once more and held the towel out to him. "Here," she said.

He gave her a pointed look. "So I'm under orders to relax right up to the moment when you decide I can't any longer?"

"Yes," she replied with a bright smile. He let out a long, resigned sigh before pulling the plug on the bath's drain. She leant him a hand and helped pull the lethargic man to his feet and out of the tub. Then she tossed the towel on his head and, in a moment of uncharacteristic frivolity, ruffled his wavy hair until it was semi-dry. Sherlock didn't seem to know quite what to make of that, and he gave her a shocked and slightly suspicious look as he slowly pulled the towel from his shoulders and started gingerly drying off his bruised, scraped body. At the same time, Irene unwrapped the towel from her own head and squeezed much of the moisture from her long hair.

Once Sherlock was dry, he moved to tie the towel around his waist and took a step in the direction of his bag and presumably some fresh clothes. But Irene put a hand on his waist to stop him, shaking her head. "What?" he asked warily.

She nodded in the direction of the bed. "Lie down on your stomach," she said, trying very hard to sound gentle rather than her much more practiced commanding tone. She undid the towel around his waist and dropped it to the ground.

Sherlock's breathing had grown audibly louder, his muscles seeming to tense as if a fight or flight response had been triggered. "Why?" he asked.

Irene's natural inclination in such a situation was to tell the man to not ask questions, perhaps even to slap him in punishment for doing so. But this was not a normal situation for her, and instead she found herself saying gently and without thinking, "Trust me."

The more remarkable thing was that he _did_ trust her, even if he still looked a little uncertain as he climbed onto the bed and lay flat on his stomach, his head turned to the side so he could see her. He might trust her, but evidently that didn't make him any less inquisitive. He eyed her as she grabbed the bottle she'd snagged from downstairs, not entirely with permission from the masseuse. "What's that?" he demanded, as if she were holding a cobra.

"Massage oil," Irene replied matter-of-factly, approaching and setting it down on the bedside table.

This forced Sherlock to turn his head the other direction to see her now. He propped himself up on his elbows and eyed her warily. "For?" he asked.

Irene gave him a blank, sarcastic look. "A pie-making competition," she deadpanned.

Sherlock huffed in annoyance, but really it was he who had decided to be so deliberately dense in the first place. His brow furrowed. "I've never had a massage before."

"So I gathered. You don't like relaxing," Irene pointed out with a mock-serious nod. She pumped some oil onto her hands and sidled up next to Sherlock on the bed. His eyes turned up to meet hers. "Honestly, I thought with everything you've been putting your body through, it deserves something in return."

He wavered for a moment before exhaling, lowering himself gingerly back onto the bed, and saying, "All right. I can't promise I'll enjoy it but give it a whirl if you like."

Irene couldn't help smiling a little fondly at his specific brand of disagreeability. She stood a moment, just long enough to swing her right leg over his hips so that she was able to settle onto her knees, straddling his low back for a better angle. She made sure to keep the layer of her dressing gown between them, more for her own control than his. He grunted a little when she settled her weight on him, and she pushed up on her knees to relieve the pressure, a bit worried she might have crushed some bruise on the other side. "You all right?"

"Yes," he said, his voice constricted by laying on his own windpipe. "I very much doubt you'd be able to hurt me."

Irene bit her lip, using all of her will power not to rise to that unwitting challenge. It was such a natural sort of reaction for what she did. But she'd seen how Sherlock reacted to being a party to her usual work. It would be a vast understatement to say it had gone badly. She didn't think she'd ever forgive herself for that night months ago when she had tied him up and unearthed his heart, only to slice right through it. Now, as she rubbed the oil over his shoulders, Irene felt strangely like she was doing penance for her sins. She used her strong hands – accustomed to hitting and dragging and wrenching – to instead begin kneading the tension from his shoulders. She immediately realised she could apply more pressure because the muscles on Sherlock's upper back and shoulders felt like they were made of concrete. Not in a toned, fit way so much as a manner indicative of carrying an unfathomable amount of tension there. There weren't distinct knots so much as there was simply one large bundle of muscle, tendon, and bone. Irene started pressing nearly hard enough to cause bruises, and Sherlock moaned in pain. She slowed. "Too much?"

After taking a few ragged breaths, Sherlock replied, "No. It hurts but... oddly feels good at the same time."

"That's the general idea," Irene said. She resumed her work, now pushing the muscles slowly from the bottom of his right shoulder blade up to the nape of his neck, trying to force the muscles there to loosen. As she repeated the motion, she asked, "What hurts?"

She half expected Sherlock to be his usual contentious self and insist that he was mostly fine. Instead he paused several seconds before replying honestly, "Everything."

Irene's treacherous heart ached at his answer. She stopped moving her hands long enough to lean forward and place a light kiss on the back of his neck. His eyes fell closed and his body shivered. God, how Irene wanted to take this scenario in a different direction. There were so many thoughts in her head, so many ideas for things she could do to him. But right now this was what he needed. So instead she put some more oil on her hands, sat back up, and began focusing intently on kneading the hard planes of Sherlock's back. She took her time, moving from one area to the next only when she could actually feel his muscles loosening a little. She paid attention to every part individually – each small juncture in his shoulders, every intercostal muscle between his ribs, all the vertebrae along his bony spine. Every once in a while, Sherlock would wince or even make a small sound of pain. But Irene knew that much of that was good pain, the sort of pain that came with exorcising an even deeper source of anguish.

Irene had spent a good thirty minutes working on his back before she slowly lifted herself off of him and settled onto the bed beside him. Then she scooted up towards the head of the bed, turned her back to the headboard, knelt, sat back on her heels, and smoothed the soft fabric of her robe. Sherlock had turned his head to his right to see her. A sort of quiet, reverent atmosphere had developed, and Irene didn't even want to speak for fear of breaking it. Looking down at him, she put a gentle hand on his far shoulder and pulled it towards her. Taking the hint, Sherlock rolled over towards her, onto his back, his head resting in her lap. He was looking up at her, his breath even and calm but his brow tight with some unknown anxiety. With him in the state he was now, and had been for the last year, there were a thousand possible causes for it. And Irene felt the curious need to wipe away all of them. Instinctively, she bent down and kissed him slowly but almost chastely. When she pulled back, the tension on his face had at least partly been replaced with guarded awe. But as with so many things where Sherlock was concerned, there was a shadow lurking over it.

Irene took a bit more massage oil in her hands and began rubbing deep, slow circles across his cheekbones. She expanded the motion up to the ridge of his brow, pausing to rub the often present crease between his eyebrows with both her thumbs. All of his earlier cheekiness had melted away as he'd slowly but surely given himself over to her ministrations. It might not seem extraordinary to most people, letting a lovely woman give you a massage. But for Sherlock, Irene recognised, this was a singularly vulnerable and trusting moment. They both knew the things she was so deliberately and carefully kneading away; they both knew it was much more than some sore muscles. And that these were things he never let anyone else see. But in the past year, Irene had seen it all, aspects of him he'd never have let her view had he been sober. Sherlock had nothing left to hide from her, and more significantly, even seemed to realise this. She ran her hands along his jaw line, then up to his earlobes, massaging them slowly between her fingers.

When Irene moved on to the front of his shoulders, she started applying much harder pressure. That is, until she pushed down a little too far, hitting one of his bruises and causing him to hiss and open his eyes, breaking the serenity of the moment. "Sorry," she whispered. Making a decision, she slid out from underneath him, allowing his head to fall back gently on the bed as she gave her own legs a much needed stretch. They were painfully tingly after having been folded beneath her in that way, but she didn't mind one bit. After all, who was she to complain about her legs going to sleep when Sherlock was lying there looking like he'd been used as a punching bag?

And perhaps that wasn't far off. From the way the bruises and scratches were all concentrated on Sherlock's chest and arms, it seemed Moran's strikes had been frantic, that he'd never had a chance to get much of an upper hand. Sherlock must have been facing and restraining him. She found herself involuntarily wondering if Sherlock had strangled the man to death. It would explain how the detective had wound up with such thorough bruising all across his chest; it would be hard to get those if you were defending yourself at all. But if you were concentrating instead on crushing someone's windpipe with both your hands…

Irene closed her eye against the image forming in her mind. Unfortunately, when she opened them again, she saw that the crease in Sherlock's brow had returned. Instead of answering his silent question, Irene scooted down so that she was sitting beside his hips, turned around on the bed to face him, and began to run her fingertips over his bruises with the most careful of touches. Sherlock's breath hitched and his lips parted fractionally. Irene's eyes flicked between the bruises and his face before she leaned over, letting her long, still damp hair fall on his skin, and gently kissed a deep purple bruise on Sherlock's sternum. She felt him shudder beneath her with a very different sort of sensation than the 'good pain' of a massage. Irene lifted her lips off his skin and glanced up at him with just her eyes. His breathing was shallow and his pupils dilated as he looked down at her.

Taking that as encouragement, Irene looked back at his bruises, feathering another kiss around the edge of one. She inhaled the light aromatic scent of his skin from the sea salts, then breathed out warmly. Sherlock's stomach rose and fell in an irregular pattern, as if he were half holding his breath in anticipation. Irene continued moving slowly, turning her head and rubbing her cheek gently against him. Then she moved to a scraped area on the side of his ribcage, her damp hair trailing along sensuously, leaving tiny wet tracks over his skin. When she reached the reddened skin on his side, Irene laid a long, open mouthed kiss there as if rubbing in a balm. Sherlock's muscles trembled, but he remained silent still.

Determined to change that, Irene suddenly broke the kiss at his side, moved her head up and inward a ways, then blew a long, hot breath against his nipple. The flesh hardened, and Sherlock made a small sound of pleasure in the back of his throat. Smiling, Irene darted her tongue out, causing him to draw a sharp breath before she unexpectedly pressed more of herself onto him, leaned across his chest, and began sucking on his other nipple. As she did so, her wet locks fell intentionally against his abdomen. Meanwhile, her manicured nails drew light patterns up and down his sides. The combination of sensations had the desired effect on Sherlock. He groaned and arched his back a little. She could feel him growing aroused, even through the layer of her dressing gown that separated them. Irene chuckled against him as she nipped lightly at his sensitive skin. She took a moment to lift her head and look up at him, drinking in the sight. His eyes were tightly shut, his hands groping out until they found purchase on her scalp. It was like a blind man seeing with his hands. _Best give him something to watch, then,_ Irene thought with a wicked grin.

She placed a hand on either side of Sherlock and began pushing herself slowly downward, her tongue and lips brushing gingerly but suggestively against his skin. She moved down to his navel, pausing a moment to dip her tongue in, which caused him to groan magnificently. Irene then placed a kiss below his navel, moving her head so that her damp hair dripped down against his rapidly growing arousal. Just as she moved her head even lower and breathed hotly against him, Sherlock let out a strangled gasp, moved his hands to her shoulders, and pulled her sharply away from him. Looking up at him, Irene could see the barely contained madness in his expression. His breathing was ragged and hungry as he choked out, "No. I want you. All of you." He seemed half desperate, and not just with ordinary desire.

Irene gave him a lightly questioning look. "You mentioned you were tired..." she pointed out, though the burning feeling in her own abdomen certainly hoped he'd say he wasn't after all.

Sherlock swallowed heavily and shook his head. "I'll manage," he rasped.

That was all Irene needed to hear. She smiled slowly, sitting up. She threw a leg over him and crawled up to his face, where she brushed a damp curl out of his eyes. "Don't worry. I'll do most the work," she breathed, and he had enough energy at least to crane his neck and capture her lips with his own. Irene ran a hand lightly over his scalp, and Sherlock's own hands went to her waist. After a long, breathless kiss, Irene sat up on his stomach. She reached down and slowly drew the fabric of the robe out from under her until her hot, sensitive flesh connected with the his skin. He stared up at her, his lips parted in anticipation. Irene ground instinctively against him, and felt both their breaths hitch and their arousal spike. He'd instinctively drawn his knees up a little. Slowly, Irene lifted herself off his stomach, slid down towards his knees, and hovered above him. One glance at his face allayed any concerns she might have had about him being too tired. Without further delay, Irene settled her hands on his hips and eased herself down onto him.

They were both so prepared and aroused by this time that he slid in easily, letting out a shaky sigh as Irene settled her full weight down on him. She felt the fire shoot from between her legs up into her stomach, and she shuddered at the sensation. After a few moments catching her breath, Irene began moving slowly against him, her mind sparking with pleasure at the quiet but sharp sounds he was making, the sight of his head thrown back. She gripped his sides, careful to avoid the already bruised areas but secretly hoping to leave a few new ones.

After a few seconds, Sherlock seemed to come back to his senses, looking up at her, his hands instantly flying to the tie of her dressing gown. As she continued to grind against him with increasing pressure, he slid the dressing gown open, then off her shoulders with shaking hands. Irene helped out, lifting her arms long enough to shrug the garment completely off, tossing it aside and leaning her upper body back against his knees. Sherlock reached up with both hands to grasp her breasts. After a moment of pressure, he pulled his fingertips back to instead ghost lightly, teasingly over her nipples. The sensation caused her to shake slightly. Irene's eyes fell closed as she squirmed erratically against him, causing him to gasp and loose his concentration. His hands fell to her waist, both steadying her and pulling her down tightly against him. It was Irene's turn to gasp as the new angle hit her in just the right place. A blinding shot of pleasure went through her. She was only half-conscious of her surroundings for a moment.

So she was caught completely off guard when Sherlock shoved his upper body off the mattress, crossing his legs under her as he sat up. The momentum started to throw Irene backwards, but Sherlock's hands shot behind her to steady her, keeping her vertical, now straddling his lap. Their faces were inches apart, both of them panting heavily. They stared into each other's eyes, and it was impossible to name everything that passed between them in that moment._ Impossible and dangerous,_ she thought. The room was quiet save for their shallow, rapid breaths. The gentle daylight had finally crept in through the window, bouncing off the white décor and adding to the warm, hazy glow Irene felt and perceived. The abject need in Sherlock's expression terrified her at first. Then she slowly thrust down against him. He shuddered, but didn't look away as he pushed back up against her, hitting just the spot inside that he had before, causing her to inhale sharply but silently.

Neither broke eye contact as they settled into a steady rhythm. He thrust up as she drew back, then she ground down as his muscles relaxed. There was a slow, almost graceful ebb and flow developing. The mutual give and take of it said everything they needed to. And if it weren't enough, their now intensely locked gazes did. Sherlock's was unguarded but pleading, as if he knew how surprising this view of him would be and begged her to accept it. Irene's expression was one of unreserved and reverent understanding. Both their mouths were open, as if inviting a kiss but not wanting to initiate it. As their pace began to pick up, however, something simultaneously snapped in both of them. They moved at the same time, free hands going to the backs of necks as they crushed their lips together in a bruising, desperate kiss.

Irene screwed her eyes shut, drinking in all the sensations Sherlock was causing. As he'd committed her body to memory, she wanted to burn this into her own. The taste of his mouth, the feel of him moving against her, inside her, of her grinding back against him in mutual understanding. But it was that understanding and all the unspoken things she'd seen in his eyes that Irene truly wanted to memorise. She wanted, in the weeks and months to come, to be able to shut her eyes and remember Sherlock Holmes. Not the way she'd seen him tear his life and heart apart this past year, but how she'd seen and felt him like this. Honest, unguarded, and full of the most genuine and soul-deep longing she'd ever witnessed. She wanted to remember that she'd felt it, too.

Sherlock drew out of the kiss, and after a moment Irene realised he wanted to look her in the eye again. She met his steady gaze, wrapping a hand around his shoulders as he stroked his hand down her spine. They were just in time to witness the indescribable flash in one another's eyes before they both fell over the edge, Irene going blind with the sensation, holding to Sherlock as tightly as possible, nails digging into skin and strangled cries yanked out of their throats. Irene shuddered against Sherlock's also shaking body as they rode out the waves of their orgasms.

It was several long seconds before the world came back into focus. Their harsh, ragged breathing and pounding, pulsing blood made Irene dizzy. Judging by the look on his face, Sherlock felt the same. In fact, the expression he wore startled Irene. It was shifting into near panic, and his breath was coming rapidly, nearing hyperventilation. His eyes were red and his jaw was clenched shut tightly, as if holding something back. Possibly a sob.

Irene's brow furrowed. "Sherlock?" she asked tentatively. "Are you all right?"

Sherlock let out an unsteady breath and blinked hard. "Yes, it's the... the combination of the cocaine withdrawal and then the hormones it's..." He shook his head slightly as if to clear it, then pressed the heel of one palm into his eye. His breathing was still pained but his voice was forced into something nearing his normal clinical tone as he explained, "The withdrawal can cause a lot of... emotional reactions. It's only chemical... difficult to control on its own, but with this." He motioned between them. Despite his forced even tone and the way he had managed to compose his expression into one of stoicism, Irene saw the glazed, watery quality of his eyes and couldn't hide her surprise. Sherlock looked down, closing his eyes and breathing deeply through his nose. "I'm sorry. I've dealt with this before of course."

But Irene knew him, knew his every reaction and indication, and she knew this wasn't only some chemical reaction. True, the drugs had the power to cause him to outwardly express things he wouldn't have otherwise. The manifestations of his sentiments these past eleven months were due to the cocaine. But their origin wasn't. It was his mind that ultimately steered him, his thoughts as they had made love that would have driven him to this near panic attack. "No you haven't," Irene replied softly, setting a hand gently on his chest. Sherlock glanced up at her, his breathing still rapid, his expression guarded. Then he seemed to realise he couldn't fool her, and dropped his head in acknowledgment of her statement.

Slowly, Irene slid off of him. She moved up the bed, untucking the sheets and pulling them down. Then she put her hand in Sherlock's and tugged him gently in her direction. Silently, he followed her lead and climbed under the covers, lying on his side facing her. He was still shaking with the effort to hold back whatever unexpected thoughts and feelings were coursing through him. His eyes fell shut, and Irene put a hand on his cheek. They stayed like that a long while before Sherlock was breathing slow enough to speak again. He opened his eyes to look at her, swallowing as he seemed to search for the words he wanted. There was a long silence that only grew more tense. Finally, Irene realised he truly wasn't going to be able to put these thoughts into words.

Drawing closer to Sherlock, Irene wrapped an arm around his waist and looked at him intently. "Sherlock, whatever you want or need to say... you've already said it."

His brow furrowed and he asked, "Have I?"

"Yes," she affirmed with a nod. Biting her lip, she added tentatively, "Or was there something you needed to hear from me?" She swallowed nervously, prepared to try to put her thoughts into words if she had to. He might, after all, desire a sort of scientific breakdown of the matter.

Luckily, Sherlock's brow relaxed and he nodded in surprised understanding. "No," he said, his breathing noticeably calmed. "You're right."

"Of course I am," Irene said with a soft smile as she drew up beside him, lying on her back and looking up into his eyes.

Sherlock traced a pattern on her stomach with his free hand as he once again drank in the sight of her. After almost a minute like that, he asked, "Why can't all communication be like this?"

"Well," Irene began, in mock contemplation, "It would certainly make bank visits more interesting, if a bit awkward."

He gave her an unamused glare that she knew meant he was secretly amused. Then his face became serious again. "I mean to say... I've always felt it was impossible for anyone else to know my thoughts. I've prided myself on it sometimes. Other times it's quite annoying that people don't seem able to follow along. And then there are the instances where I even wish perhaps to think less like myself..." he trailed off, looking away a moment. "To be honest, the drugs were always helpful for brainwork and staving off boredom. But I still kept hoping they might make me act or even feel a bit more normal..." he trailed off, seemingly unable to continue.

"I know," Irene said. Then she propped herself up on her arm, looking him in the eye before kissing him softly. When she drew away, she repeated gently, "I know." She knew the reasons he'd been driven back to the needle time and again, and that it wasn't just a rush he was looking for, but something much deeper. It may have taken eleven months and a trial by fire for her to figure him out, but Irene had finally realised what he liked. Not the drugs, nor anything that came with them: the clarity of mind, the sense of power, the abandonment, the soul-rending depression, the near death experiences, the absolute waste of life and a brilliant mind. No, he _hated _the drugs.

But he liked_ her._ He drank in the sight and feel of her as if she were an oasis in the desert. He liked the illusion of being close to her, so he'd kept coming back, hoping some day that mirage would turn out to be real. And it was. God, it was. But she couldn't help wondering how much better things would have been for both of them if she'd let him see that sooner. Because this time, when she had opened up to him, it had been enough to keep the needle from his arm. This time he'd been given true contentment and the mutual silent understanding that came with love, not a poisonous imitation.

He'd had that understanding with John, a brotherly love and patient acceptance of a sort he'd probably thought he'd never have with anyone. She knew how desperately Sherlock yearned to return to that world, to that comfortable mental space. And still, John had never seen the inside of his addiction, the inside of his soul. If John had scratched at the surface of Sherlock's heart, Irene had sliced it open and watched the chambers pump. Then she'd given her own blood to keep him going. It wasn't only Sherlock who was mesmerised and terrified by the truly intimate things that had passed between them.

Sherlock stared back at her silently, searching Irene's face. She could practically see his mind combing through his own remembrance of everything she'd seen the drugs do to him. Every secret longing and pain they'd revealed. Every dark and reviled part of his soul they'd dragged to the surface. And, she hoped as she waited for him to respond, seeing that in the end she didn't give a damn about any of that. After several long moments, Sherlock slowly wrapped his arm around her. His tone was one of realisation tinted by sorrow as he replied, "Yes. I suppose you do know." He stared at her a few more seconds before lying down and closing his eyes. Then he glanced over at the clock, which read 13:00.

"How long until your flight?" she asked, hating that she needed to bring it up.

"Four hours," he replied. "And I ought to get there at least two hours early. Security at Ben Gurion is, as you know, quite strict and thorough."

"But we still have some time," Irene pointed out, though her own voice was now laced with a burning sense of regret she absolutely didn't want to have to face yet.

Sherlock turned back towards Irene and drew her body down fully against him, her head resting just beneath his chin. Irene settled against him. In spite of his hard, bony frame, she didn't think she'd ever felt more comfortable. She couldn't see his face, but she could hear his thudding heartbeat and felt his throat move as he swallowed hard, then replied quietly, "Yes. Some."


	12. 5: One for the Road, chapter 6

**Note: **Sorry for such a delay with this last chapter. Comic-Con was wonderful (I saw Martin Freeman at The Hobbit and Moffat at Doctor Who and just kept wondering why on earth they hadn't brought Benedict out to have a Sherlock panel). But it was also exhausting, so this took a while to edit.

I wanted to extend my heartfelt thanks to those of you who've read and reviewed. Your support has been quite touching, particularly those of you who've been reading and reviewing all the way through both this and The Sign of the Four before it. You've made this a wonderful year in writing for me. Writing this story was perhaps the biggest challenge I've taken on. I wanted to present the dark, painful truth of addiction without holding back. And I wanted to weave a relationship story that was honest in its complications. Hopefully I achieved that. And for those of you who have been reading but haven't commented, I'd love to hear your thoughts, though regardless I appreciate the support.

So this is the final chapter. But it's probably not the end of the story. Some people have asked about sequels (both to this and Sign of the Four), and I confess I do have some ideas. But they'd be more one-shots or short stories than epics (but then again, _this_ story was originally a one-shot...). Still, I have given up fighting against these notions, though it might be a while before anything is actually written. I'm currently writing a series of short stories mostly dealing with Sherlock's earlier years which I consider backstory for this universe. I also have some pro work I really need to get done. But _then_ I will hopefully have time to get to some of the sequel vignette ideas I have. Sign up for an author alert if you like, because I'd love to share all these stories with you! Thank you once again and I hope you enjoy this the final chapter of What He Likes.

* * *

**5: One for the Road  
**(6/6)

Irene hadn't even realised she'd drifted back to sleep in Sherlock's arms until she awoke out of them. A wave of panic overtook her, her eyes flying open to look around the room. She relaxed when she saw Sherlock sitting on the side of the bed. He was wearing dark suit pants, a purple shit, and leaning over to do up the laces of his dress shoes. It was a shocking vision, an image of the Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street. She hadn't seen him dressed like that or looking this composed and determined in two years, since London. Irene's heart twisted, but she didn't know if it was with fondness or regret for that time. But she certainly knew how she felt about seeing him getting ready to leave. Blinking at the clock, she saw that it was 2:30pm. Nearly time for him to head out. "Were you going to wake me?" she asked evenly.

He didn't seem startled. He'd probably realised she was awake by the shift in her breathing and whatever minuscule movements she'd made that he could detect. Because he looked to have that old relaxed yet hyper aware aura about him as he glanced over briefly, then looked back to his shoes with a slight frown. "I think so," he replied, honest in his uncertainty.

Irene sat up slowly, drawing the sheets up against her chest to hold in the warmth that had disappeared when he'd left her side. She watched him quietly, observing his subdued demeanour, so different from the open and almost vulnerable expression he'd worn just a few hours ago. With anyone else, she might have said he'd put his mask back in place, but it wasn't that simple with Sherlock. His calm and assured movements, even tone, and subtle expressions weren't a mask. He wasn't trying to hide anything. That was just _him_ in his natural state. What she'd seen of him the past day was remarkably unusual and, though a true part of him, she realised it was an immensely difficult state for him to achieve and maintain. He probably hadn't done so ever before. And her throat clenched to think that she might never see that part of him again.

As Sherlock finished with his shoes, he pushed himself to his feet, his back turning to Irene as he started collecting his medical supplies back into his bag. Irene quietly slid out of the bed, grabbing her discarded dressing gown off the floor and putting it back on for warmth. She approached him slowly. She didn't even try to keep the pain and desperation out of her demeanour as she said, "I can't stand to think of you trying to do this on your own. Getting clean. It's obviously not easy..."

He stopped putting his things away and looked over at her. She was relieved to see the subtle expression of fondness in his eyes and understand that his tenderness towards her hadn't evaporated, even if he was preparing himself to go back to a different life. He opened and closed his mouth slightly a few times as if trying to think of the appropriate thing to say. "I know you're concerned." He looked past her as he added stolidly, "But I'll be fine. I've been to rehab before. I know the steps, how it works. I can replicate it on my own. I've recognised a lot of my withdrawal signs already..." he trailed off into a murmur and turned back to his bag.

Before if they'd had a disagreement, it would have been fraught with sharp-edged tones and biting sarcasm. But Irene recognised the shift in things between them by her lack of desire to prove herself right and bend him to her will now. Instead, she remained gentle and concerned as she said, "I appreciate your will power. And I know you imagine it will be possible to do this on your own-"

Sherlock cut her off sharply. "I _have_ to imagine that. I have no other option than to do it on my own. Either I imagine it can work this way or I give up entirely." He clenched his jaw tightly and turned his eyes back down to his bag. Irene watched as he placed a few items inside in a measured, steady manner. She could see how hard he was fighting against a potential emotional outburst and was reminded that, as much as stoic logic was his natural state, Sherlock had always had a rash, temperamental side as well. The drugs had magnified that greatly. But this time he wasn't snapping out of annoyance or impatience, but out of fear. And that worried Irene.

"Let me go with you," she insisted, stepping closer to him and putting a hand on his arm without really thinking about it, causing him to freeze and look down at her. Irene was a bit surprised at her own warmth, and part of her was even reviled by it. Part of her insisted sentiment was for the weak. But a newly ignited part of her fought against that notion, told her that not only was it all right to show her genuine sentiments, but it was in fact the stronger, braver choice in this instance. So Irene met Sherlock's eyes steadily. "I know you have to get out of Israel. And I know it will probably take a few weeks before you're able to go back to Baker Street. So we'll go somewhere else. _Anywhere_ else you want." Irene slid her other hand up to rest on his cheek. "I know it won't be pretty, but it isn't as though I haven't seen the ugly side of things. Or that I'm not both willing and able to handle it." She drew a deep breath, finding that inner bravery and allowing herself to give him a pleading look as she said softly, "You don't have to do this alone, Sherlock."

For a moment, he looked as if he desperately wanted to give in. Then he closed his eyes and said lowly, "Yes I do. Whether tomorrow or in several weeks time." He looked back at her, his posture remaining stolid, but pain evident in his voice for those who knew where to look for it. "It isn't as though you can come back to London with me."

That was true enough. She was officially dead, and would be made literally so if any number of people back in London realised she was actually alive. Still, London wasn't the only option. Irene shook her head. "No, but what I said before... we still have _some _time we could be spending together, no matter where we are or what it's like. _Some_ of it would be good, anyway. Isn't that enough?"

Sherlock reached up and grasped her hand, which was still resting on his face. Then he took her other one off his shoulder, holding her hands together in his, looking down at her with a pained shadow in his eyes. "It will only make it harder to go back. And I want to. I need to. Everything I've been trying to regain, everything I've been working towards is back in London. My work. John." His voice was dry, sounding again like a man dying of thirst in a desert. But this time, she wasn't the oasis he sought. He didn't need a fleeting mirage of contentment; he needed the real, permanent thing.

In spite of how much that notion hurt, Irene understood. She knew just how deeply he had been longing to get back to his work, back to John, back to the only stable and happy life he'd ever managed to have. She knew it was why he had put himself through the hell of dismantling Moriarty's network in the first place. Still, she was selfish the same as anyone else. And this thing between them was unique for her as well, though not quite as singular as it was for him. She didn't want to let him go one second before she had to. But as Irene looked up into his face, his features seemingly determined but in actuality anguished in a way few people would recognise, she realised she couldn't burden him with this. Not in addition to all the stresses he already bore. It wasn't fair of her to drag her feet for a year, then once she'd given into her feelings for him to demand that he put his own life on hold to give her back the time she'd wasted. Nor was it fair to draw closer to him, to give him an even stronger taste of an aspect of life he'd never delved into, only to have to end it anyway. In the end, it might only make his recovery more difficult in the long run. So Irene swallowed and nodded. "I understand," she said finally.

Sherlock gave her a long, measuring look before closing his eyes. He drew her hands up to his mouth and kissed her knuckles slowly. He didn't say thank you. But then, he didn't have to. He'd picked up this second language quite well, even if he was likely to forget all of it before long. Without practice, he'd atrophy like a student who, having never used his French after school, forgot everything but the most basic phrases. If she saw him again - no, _when_ she saw him again, she told herself - would they be able to go back to this? Or would he, away from this world and hopefully free of the drugs, forget this language? She honestly didn't know.

Slowly letting go of her hands and opening his eyes, Sherlock turned away to finish packing up his bag. "I won't be on my own for long," he insisted, grabbing his suit coat from the back of the desk chair he'd hung it on. As he slid it on and did up the buttons, Irene could see how deliberately and thoroughly he was attempting to put the pieces of his old self back together. How the outer change affected the inner. It was more like dawning his own skin than putting on a mask. He sounded casually confident as he added, "It's a few unpleasant weeks, but then I'll be back at 221B and working cases again with John."

In truth, Irene was less confident than Sherlock about that prospect. Things changed, whether Sherlock acknowledged that or not. She knew how strictly he wanted people to adhere to his own expectations, and worried that whatever inevitable changes had taken place with John in the past year and a half, Sherlock might simply ignore them. Or worse, try to force things back into a configuration he recognised. Surely he understood that, no matter what, things would never be the same again. Perhaps he did, she realised. After all, she'd witnessed how deeply buried his fears and insecurities were in general. It occurred to her that it was quite possible part of Sherlock secretly knew full well that his old life didn't exist any longer, and was terrified at the prospect. After all, that life is what had kept him clean.

The more she thought about this, the more Irene's her heart beat harder. She wanted so desperately for him to be right, for things to be easy, for him to stride back to work without anyone caring that he'd faked his own death and disappeared for eighteen months. But even she, master of denial though she was, lacked his ironclad mind over matter will to convince himself that everything would go back to how it was. She knew he was facing an uncertain and difficult path. "I hope all of that happens," she said, and he glanced over at her warily.

"Why shouldn't it?" he asked, smoothing down his jacket.

Irene drew a breath and eyed him evenly. "Things change, Sherlock. People change. Even John. Even _you._ Or don't you think you have?" she pointed out.

That seemed to give him a long moment of pause. "Perhaps. But change isn't necessarily good," he pointed out, looking away as he continued. "There are numerous things I've done in the past year and a half, many _changes_ that I would rather not keep." Irene remembered the bruises and viscous scratches on his chest and recalled the image she'd had of him choking the life out of Sebastian Moran. She shuddered deeply. No, she couldn't blame him for not wanting to remember the things he'd been forced to do. Not to mention the wretched, depraved states the drugs had brought him to in her presence, and undoubtedly outside of it as well. His tone remaining matter-of-fact, Sherlock continued, "I've already begun the process of deleting those memories. That will be easier when the drugs are completely out of my system."

Irene was aware that her breath had halted, her body freezing entirely as she looked up at him. Was he deleting memories of _their_ time? _And why wouldn't he want to?_ She reasoned with herself. So much of it was deeply painful, particularly for him. Still, her whole being rebelled at the idea of losing even one second of the time they'd spent together. Even in the awful moments, with his deepest fears and desires exposed to her, a strong understanding had grown between them. The thought of losing that made Irene cold. By the time she composed herself enough to move, Sherlock was picking his bag up off the desk. Irene's hand snatched out and grabbed him by the wrist. "Are you going to delete this? These... things between us?" she asked him bluntly, her eyes burning into his.

To her great relief, Sherlock looked surprised, even affronted at the suggestion. She remembered the way he had studied every inch of her, committed her to memory, and suddenly felt a bit foolish for having been so panicked. It was only that _she _would never forget this, and it mattered deeply to her that he didn't either. "No, of course not," he replied testily, his brow furrowing. Then as he studied her, he seemed to recognise the worry that was melting out of her demeanour. It took him several seconds longer than it would most people to register it, but still, he did. He let go of the bag handle, setting it back on the desk, and turned to face Irene fully, looking down at her seriously. "In fact," he said, hesitating awkwardly a few moments before seeming to decide it was all right to touch her. He slid both his hands onto her waist. The tender gesture seemed unnatural coming from him, and yet felt just right. "I've set aside a room in my mind, an exact replica of this one. I've put a good deal of care into memorising this." He nodded to the room, then looked back at her. "And this."

Sherlock leaned down towards her, and Irene needed no further invitation. She eagerly grabbed his head with both hands, pulling him down by his hair, and meeting his mouth with hers. He seemed momentarily surprised by her aggressive action, but quickly began kissing her back. It was a yearning, savouring, tender yet feisty sort of kiss. One second they were smashed together, the next drawing back and biting each other's lips, and then his tongue delved deeply into her mouth. His hands went up to her hair, and he pushed his face even more flush with hers, both of them desperate to make sure everything they wanted to say was being lodged deeply in the other's mind. They'd said all of this before. But it bore repeating.

When they finally drew apart, Sherlock took a few seconds to catch his breath and calm the flush in his face. Irene did the opposite, savouring the rapid rise and fall of her own chest, the warmth and tingle of her skin. To her surprise, Sherlock brushed a lock of hair gently out of her face, and she couldn't help giving him a pleading look. "Can I at least see you off at the airport?" she asked.

His eyes flicked across her face, then he swallowed. "I'd rather remember you here."

Irene swallowed just as hard, fighting against the sudden tremor in her throat. "All right," she agreed, surprised at the creak in her voice. Sherlock noticed it, and looked at her in concern. She should be happy for him, she knew. He'd accomplished his nearly impossible goal. He was finally going back to where he wanted to be. He would have everything in life he liked... except her.

After studying her carefully, Sherlock gave her an understanding, pained look, and kissed her again briefly. That he was even capable of comprehending someone's nuanced emotional response was remarkable. But that it should provoke empathy in him was even more unique. She could only imagine how much he must have desired at different points in his life to be able to have that sort of connection with someone. And now he was giving it up at the moment he needed it most. Feeling an unfamiliar rising tide of sorrow threatening to overtake her, Irene turned away, towards the desk. She grabbed a pen and scribbled down some numbers on a bit of stationary. Then she turned back and thrust it out to him. "Take it," she insisted.

Sherlock took the paper and looked at it for a moment. Glancing back at her, he remarked, "A phone number."

"Mine," she said. "My new one. So you can keep in touch."

"I don't have a mobile anymore," he pointed out.

"But presumably you'll get one," she replied, frustration edging into her voice. The last thing she needed was for his deeply ingrained disagreeability to stop her now. "I want you to text me. Whenever you're ready to, I mean. I won't know your number so I can't very well bother you." She took a deep breath. "And this way if you're never ready, you don't ever have to use it. But I hope you will. And I hope you'll see me again some time. Any time." She waited, realising she was actually quite nervous to hear his response. As if she were some fawning schoolgirl asking a crush to ring her up for dinner some time. Irene tried to suppress how ridiculous she felt, and how vulnerable, at laying her desires out so plainly.

Slowly, deliberately, Sherlock laid the scrap of paper back down on the desk, and Irene's heart sank. She bit the inside of her lip to fight against the tears she could feel beginning to sting her throat. Then Sherlock stared at her and said quietly, "I don't need a scrap of paper. I'll remember."

And she knew, in this ephemeral language that had developed between them, that he meant much more than her phone number.

Then, finally steeling himself, Sherlock turned, grabbed his bag off the desk, and strode towards the door. As he stepped into the hall, he paused momentarily to glance back over his shoulder. And Irene burned that image of him into her own memory. As he walked out the door, he was both the brilliant, confident Sherlock Holmes of London and the vulnerable, caring man she'd come to know in Tel Aviv all at once.

It was everything she liked.


	13. Epilogue

**Note: **Well, I'm sure most of you weren't expecting an epilogue to this story many months after it was concluded. Neither was I. But I've started posting the Sherlock/Irene sequel to this story about what happens when they finally reunite in person and it made me want to write a bit of a transition between them. (That story's called "The Way the Heavens Go", and I've begun posting it in case you liked this story but hadn't seen that one yet by the way). But this vignette didn't really belong in that story timeline-wise. Nor did it fit in "The Sign of the Four", in spite of showing Irene's reaction to things that happened in that story. Ultimately I felt this was the best place for this vignette. Consider it a little bonus. Enjoy!

* * *

She'd always known this is how she'd see him next: in a news video, pushing past a crowd of reporters, scowl fixed in place. After all, by the time of his supposed suicide, he'd made quite the impression on the media and the public alike. Naturally his return to the world of the living was bound to cause a stir. And of course he couldn't just waltz back in quietly. No, Irene thought fondly, of course he had made a quite literal splash, jumping right back into a case that ended with him taking down an escaping criminal on the Thames. Sherlock Holmes had spent a year and a half remaining incredibly low key, utterly unseen and unnoticed by anyone save for her. Of course he'd re-enter the world in a spectacularly theatrical way.

But she hadn't expected the news anchor's words, spoken over the images of Sherlock and John hustling out of a hospital and into a waiting black towncar: "... released today after suffering a near-fatal cardiac arrest brought on by an overdose of cocaine..."

Those words stopped Irene cold. Drained all the warm blood from her face and limbs. She felt as if it all headed straight to her stomach, because she immediately began to feel a wave of churning nausea. She had to have heard that wrong. She stopped the BBC online video, dragged the progress bar back ten seconds. This time as the words were spoken, Irene noted Sherlock's pale complexion, the dark circles under his eyes, his tightly pained expression. And she realised she wouldn't have even needed to hear anyone say it. She'd seen him in that state far more times than she would have liked. Irene knew what Sherlock looked like in the midst of a cocaine crash.

Before she realised it, she'd slammed her laptop shut, sending it into sleep mode and her bedroom into silence. Irene's legs seemed to draw up onto her lounging chair involuntarily, folding up closer to her body. She pursed her lips together tightly, her eyes closed of their own volition.

As soon as they did, Irene was hit with a keen memory, an image she'd never been able to wipe from her mind. It flashed into her mind, filled all of her senses and she was here, nearly a year ago, seated in this chair while Sherlock lay stretched out on her bed. The memory rushed at her like a freight train barrelling past, rocking the world around it and sucking all the air away with it:

_In one smooth movement, Sherlock unclenched his fist, loosened the belt on his arm, and deftly sunk the needle into a vein. Irene felt her own breathing stop as he pushed the plunger in a little, then withdrew some blood. Then he depressed the plunger slowly, so slowly Irene felt as if time had stopped. When he pulled the needle out, he had the momentary presence of mind to replace the cap and vaguely rolled it aside on the bed. Then he inhaled a sharp, shuddering breath and fell back onto her pillow. All of his muscles seemed to tense up, a sweat broke out on his forehead, and his breathing was rapid and uneven. For a few panicked moments, Irene wondered if he might be seizing._

_Then his muscles relaxed as he breathed out a long, ragged, nearly orgasmic, "Oh ____**fuck.**__**"**_

Irene forced her eyes open, trying to shove the memory out of existence. A futile effort. The bed lay before her, and the sight and sounds and emotions she'd experienced were still solidly lodged in her mind. At the time, she'd been dying to see him come undone. Now, the memory made her sick. And the only clear thought she could crystallise was: you were a fling. He's gone back to his first love.

Irene's hands had clenched around the metal edges of her laptop so hard she knew it would leave indentations on her palms. There was nothing else to grasp onto at the moment. She'd always known this was a possibility. Even that it was probable. Relapses were extremely common, as her entire interaction with Sherlock over the last year had proved. She'd told him as much. She'd expressed her worries about his ability to get clean on his own before heading back to John and work. Told him she could come with him. But he'd insisted on going it alone. And he'd clearly made it back to London, to John, even to his work.

Then _why?_ Irene let out a shaky breath, realising her pulse was pounding along with a throbbing pain in her head. But she couldn't understand it. If Sherlock had all the things he desired, all the pieces he'd missed that had driven him back to cocaine during his time in hiding, why would he have gone back to using? What dark pull could have drawn him into that?

Every fibre of her being wanted to face Sherlock herself. To question him, yes. Or perhaps, as she was surprised to find herself wishing, simply to hold him. No, he'd never agree to that. He'd most likely push her away awkwardly. After all, she'd made it clear when he'd left – if he wanted to talk to her, that was in his hands. She wouldn't push. As much as Irene now desperately wanted to phone him, she couldn't. He had no number yet, but it was more than that. She'd known then and knew even now, if Sherlock wanted her to remain in his life, he had to reach out to her. She'd done enough damage to his mind and body as it was.

Irene had no idea how he would feel about their relationship in the sober light of day, once he'd left the hotel in Tel Aviv and headed back to London to face reality without her. To confront his own obstacles. He'd been so sure that he could do it. That his iron will would get him through the solitary pursuit of sobriety and self control. Of a return to peace and some measure of security after a year and a half of hellish, dangerous pursuits and soul-rending loneliness on the road. Sherlock had thought he could do it. He'd been so sure.

"_Near-fatal cardiac arrest brought on by a cocaine overdose." _The words echoed in Irene's head, constricted her throat painfully.

He'd been wrong.

Sherlock needed help. That much was clear. And she reminded herself that John had been at his side leaving the hospital. Perhaps, at least, that meant Sherlock was accepting help. That was good, wasn't it? John would do everything he could to look out for his friend. In the end, Sherlock most likely didn't need her help at all. And if he wanted it, he would call. Or text. After all, she'd told him to contact her only when he was ready. If he ever was.

* * *

Ten days and twelve hours after the awful revelation, Irene was lying in that very same bed, the one from that potent and awful memory, her eyelids growing heavy and her breathing slowing as sleep swam towards her, when a buzzing sound yanked her just slightly back into consciousness. Irene took a deep breath, but didn't open her eyes. Whatever it was, it would go away.

The buzz came again. Irene turned over sleepily, letting out a small sigh. Sleep was almost there. It had been a long day, with three different clients. Normally she wouldn't have booked that much work in one day, but lately she'd been doing her best to stay as busy as possible. Rendering her completely exhausted now at midnight. She pulled the covers up to her chin.

_Buzzzzzz._

Letting out a sharp sigh of irritation and only half-awake, Irene opened her eyes and rolled towards the noise, which was coming from her night stand, determined to locate and destroy it. Her hand reached out blindly in the direction of the offensive sound and came down on -

Her mobile phone. Of course. She always left it on vibrate just in case, but the only people who had this number were clients and a few acquaintances she'd made here in Israel. Clients wouldn't be calling at midnight on a weekday. _No one_ called at midnight on a weekday. Who would do that? Eyes bleary, Irene looked at the screen of her phone for an answer.

Irene blinked a few times, expecting to see a name from her contacts swim into focus. Instead, there was only an unidentified number. A number beginning with a +44 country code. United Kingdom. She blinked again, this time to subconsciously test what she was seeing. In her bleary state, perhaps she was only dreaming. Everyone she knew in the UK thought she was dead, and certainly wouldn't have had her number. Everyone but one person.

In her haste to sit up and switch her bedside lamp on, Irene nearly knocked it over. Her mobile had rung four times by then, and she flicked her finger quickly over to the answer button. She paused a moment with the phone in her lap, contemplating all the potential conversations and outcomes that might exist within that phone in this moment. Then she lifted the mobile to her ear.

At first, she merely listened. The slight sound of breathing on the other end told her the caller was doing the same. Was he as lost for words as she? _He_ was the one who had called. Another few seconds passed and it became clear that Irene was actually going to have to speak first.

"Sherlock," she said, completely confident about who she was speaking to. What surprised her was how fond and yearning the sound of his name was on her lips. And the undertone of relief there as well.

It must have surprised him, too, because after a pause, Sherlock replied, "You know that I didn't in fact die."

_But you could have. _The thought immediately came to mind, despite the fact that Irene had managed to suppress herself from thinking about that since she'd seen the news report. This wasn't the overly sensationalised wailing of some woman about her lover working in law enforcement or fire fighting, potentially facing danger. Sherlock faced dangerous situations on a daily basis, and Irene had never given much thought to the notion that he might actually be killed by a suspect. She hadn't even _really _believed it could happen when he was dismantling Moriarty's network. The closest he'd come had probably been with Moran, and the psychological impact of that had been more damaging to him than any physical wounds.

No, in spite of those very real dangers, part of her had always felt that the only thing that could truly destroy Sherlock Holmes was himself. And he almost had. Overdosing to the point of cardiac arrest? Irene's throat constricted painfully at the thought once more. He'd finally pushed himself to the edge. And she'd done a damned good job nearly getting him there before. Then she'd at least done her bit to pull him back. Now to have him back in the same place he was less than six weeks ago... But this time, she couldn't be there. Couldn't see him. Would he have even have wanted to see her?

It wasn't until Sherlock cleared his throat anxiously that Irene realised she hadn't responded to his comment. He'd most likely guessed at what she must be thinking, though, because he continued matter-of-factly, "I'm fine now. A bit run down, but no significant lasting damage the cardiologist says. Fortunate."

"Yes it is," Irene agreed.

There was another pause on the other end of the line. Irene felt she could practically see Sherlock struggling to find the words. She knew he hated speaking on the phone, and speaking about personal matters, so the combination must be horrific. Finally, he ventured,"You're disappointed in me."

Irene felt a small pang at that. His tone was factual, as it always was when he was sober, but just the hesitation bellied some level of anxiety and reticence on his part. "Is that why you put off calling me? Because you thought I'd be disappointed?" she asked.

Sherlock paused again, and she could picture him stoically considering how to phrase his response. Finally, he said, "I wasn't sure how it was customary to handle a situation like this. Like ours."

"I highly doubt you're alone there, Sherlock. I don't think there's ever been a situation quite like ours," Irene noted wryly, though she meant it.

She could hear him sighing a bit. "Obviously," he conceded, "it's unique. Which makes it more complicated."

Irene had to bite back another sigh on her part. She understood that conversations of a personal nature were difficult for Sherlock. But this was like pulling teeth. She was doing her best to be patient, but tried to give him a nudge. "You know, this will be much easier if you just come out with all the things you're trying not to say right now. More awkward, perhaps, but right now you're clearly holding yourself back and it's not doing either of us any favours. I may have an inkling of what you're thinking, so I can begin it for you if you like." She took a calming breath, then said more evenly, "You called me, which means you knew I'd be concerned when I saw the news about you. But you didn't call right away because you were crashing, feeling unwell, and didn't want to speak to me about it when you were once again emotionally vulnerable. Yes?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied tightly. When Irene didn't speak, he seemed to begrudgingly realise this meant it was his turn. So he said, haltingly, "I assumed you'd want to hear that I was all right. But it was difficult thinking of how to convey that to you without implying that I … see this as more than it is. Or expect something more from you. What happened between us was..." he stammered uncharacteristically, and Irene could picture the frustrated look he must have on his face at his inability to get the words precisely right. "For _me_ it was quite meaningful. And I know it was for you as well, I don't mean to imply it wasn't," he added quickly, predicting her objection. He'd been pacing around a room and she could hear now that he'd stopped.

Finally, he let out a shaky breath, and seemed to let his reservations go along with it at last. More quietly now, Sherlock said, "When you gave me this number, you did so with the hope that once I was settled back in London, we'd be able to keep in touch. That we could meet up again somewhere, spend a weekend together perhaps. You certainly didn't agree to be my nurse or my therapist. Just because we slept together once-"

"Twice," Irene couldn't help correcting. She was doing her best to keep quiet and let him speak.

"Just because we spent one night together," Sherlock clarified, "and had discussed the potential for more doesn't mean that you're now obligated to me in any way. You're not stuck with this simply because you happened to have slept with me recently. When I left you, I didn't expect to be stuck here at least 90 days for rehab. But I think I might actually need it this time."

Whatever irritation Irene had previous felt at Sherlock's hesitance and obfuscating had melted away by now. Obviously this was all difficult for him to say. Especially given that he didn't know where their relationship stood or whether it was appropriate to burden her with any of this. "I appreciate your thoughtfulness," she said, continuing quite firmly, "but while the timeline of our reunion might have changed, the nature of our relationship has not. Everything that happened between us, everything we said and did... I think it was clear that we have feelings for one another. And I hope that you understand by now that you can't shock or disappoint me. We may have only slept together twice, Sherlock, but we've been intimate much more often and for much longer than that."

There was silence on his end of the line, but this time it seemed more comfortable. What she could hear of his breathing was soft, almost contemplative in its rhythm. When he spoke, he sounded much less flustered. "So you'd be open to staying in touch," he ventured tentatively.

"I insist on staying in touch. I want to know how you're doing. How annoying your therapist is. What brilliant deductions you've made on cases. What John's doing that irritates you. What sort of underwear you're wearing," she said, the playful curl of her lips coming through in her voice.

To her relief, Sherlock scoffed at that. He didn't chuckle, but his supposed disapproval was almost more rewarding, much more _him_ than his approval of her flirtation would have been. "Must everything come back to sex?"

"Oh, I very much hope it does," Irene affirmed. Then, more soberly she added, "But I know you have to focus on your rehab. I wouldn't want to genuinely distract you."

"No, it's fine," Sherlock said, thoughtfully. "In fact, it might be useful to have a bit of additional motivation. Sobriety is a goal unto itself. But there's no reason there can't be some... other incentives."

She could hear his voice getting a little dry, heard him cough involuntarily, and a smile graced Irene's face. She could picture the faint blush of pink across those fantastic cheekbones. Could recall the sound of his heart nearly beating out of his chest, as it would be now if she were there, leaning in over him. If she could hover with her face above his, she'd see that look of pure adoration that he'd had in his eyes. And she could run her hands through that thick wavy hair, holding on tightly. There was pleasure, to be certain. But there was something much deeper. A connection that could not be quantified or explained. An utter peace of the sort both of them had chased after futilely for years. But it could be theirs. Both of theirs. That was still possible.

Irene drew in a long, deep breath of contentment. Yes, that was an eventuality worth waiting for. "You don't have to tell me anything you're not ready to," she said quietly. "But you also can tell me anything you want to. Whenever you want."

Sherlock let out a shaky breath. Irene thought she could hear an enormous weight lifting off of him as he said, "Thank you." As if realising something, he added, "And the same goes for you. That's only fair. I can't promise I'll have the most helpful responses or support. But it's only fair that you have access to me as well. Though I'll set the text alert to silent this time." Irene smiled at that. In general, she was feeling a bit better now that he seemed slightly more at ease. He continued, "Actually, I don't think we should speak much if we can help it. Texting would be better. They can be deleted, and if Mycroft or anyone else happens to be watching me, they won't be able to simply listen to my side of the conversation and possibly figure out who I'm speaking to." He paused a moment, then added very seriously, "You do realise you're still taking a large risk by contacting me this much. Are you sure it's worth it?"

"Yes," Irene replied without hesitation. She had no doubt about that. When she'd seen him on the news, seen that he'd relapsed and nearly died, the very last thing she'd wanted to do was run the other direction. But as much as she badly wanted to know what had prompted him to use again, she didn't want to force the issue. She hoped he would let her into that truth some day, but for now, she was simply glad to be connected to him in any way once again. Irene shifted into a reclined position on the bed. Her tone shifted with it, lightening considerably. "Now that we've got that sorted, and you've woken me up for at least another hour, and considering we may not be having many conversations where I get to hear that lovely voice of yours..."

"Yes?" he asked, and she thought she could hear him intentionally letting said voice slip into the low, rumbling baritone he must be at least subconsciously aware was immensely attractive.

She savoured the small chill it sent through her a moment before continuing, "Tell me about the case you just solved. The one that ended with you swimming in the Thames in November. But-" she said, cutting him off sharply before he could say anything, "you have to give me the clues you had along the way. Not just the solutions."

"You want a chance to solve it, I presume?" Sherlock asked, and she could hear a rustling then creaking noise that sounded like he was climbing into bed. His tone was, she dared say, marginally relaxed.

"Of course," she said, unable to help the smile creeping onto her face. The strange feeling of contentment washing over her seemed heedless of the harsh and difficult realities they were facing and of the fact that she was a woman of supreme pragmatic realism. Just for this moment, she could be an optimist. Just for them.

"It was a rather complicated case," Sherlock said. "It may take a while to relay the details."

Irene settled herself comfortably onto her side, then turned her mobile to speaker phone and laid it beside her on the bed. "Oh, don't apologise, Sherlock," she said. If this was the sort of time they could spend together for now, she would take it. Not that she didn't _also_ want to shag him senseless the second he was allowed to leave the UK and sneak off to meet her. But for now, he was alive. She was alive. That was enough to be going on.

Irene allowed herself a sly, fond smile as she said, "It's been ages since I've heard a good detective story."


End file.
